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Best Grandfather Poems

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New Grandfather Poems

Don't stop! The most popular and best Grandfather poems are below this new poems list.

Great Grandfather by Rottenstreich, Chani
Grandfather Clock by johnson, curtis
Grandfather Paradox by leach, Sky
For My Loving Grandfather by Singh , Shubham
A Grandfather Clause by Horn, James
My Grandfather Mr Robin Hood by Christian, Katie
An epitaph for my grandfather by Christian, Katie
THE GRANDFATHER OF ALL CHILDREN by Crisci, Andrew
To My Amazing Grandfather by Coogan, Joseph
Dying Grandfather by Martin, Thomas

View all new Grandfather Poems

The Best Grandfather Poems

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GRANDPA

*GRANDMA WAITS IN THE GARDEN*

Hi, grandpa, it's me again!
Your dentures sit in an open glass above the nightstand
Remember the tears grandma sang before she passed?
The way she looked into your eyes, 
Moments before she said her goodbyes
Grandpa, I found a note from grandma, 
She waits for you.

Hi grandpa, it’s me again!
The rocking chair is old and dusty
Remember the way grandma sat me on her lap?
Read many stories before I took a nap
How she enjoyed stroking my hair with her hands
I miss the way she rocked me to sleep every night 

Hello, grandpa!
I stored your hearing aid away
Remember that special musical box in grandma's drawer? 
I opened it last night, to watch the ballerina soar
I wish you could hear the tiny chimes grandma loved
I hope you don’t mind, I’m keeping grandma's favorite scarf

Hello, Grandpa!
I'm caressing grandma’s picture frame
Remember the way she looked in the yellow pretty sundress?
Grandpa, I miss the things grandmother did for you
Like the walking cane, she handcrafted before she left

Hello, grandpa, it's me again! 
Here I sit holding your hand
I have no more tears
Soon you will see her again
She will no longer be alone
Say hi to her, give her a kiss
Tell her I miss her so much
Bye, grandpa

~*~


Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2013

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REQUIEM IN MY HEART



Out in the middle of a large farmland, I become a girl of old charm and unexpected songs again. Past the flanks where cluttered rows of hyacinths and ferns quiver, disarranged huts begin to shake as the rough wind wheezes. And on this late July, mounds of dust remind me of summers back in my grandfather’s hometown. Yet, a different vanishing overtakes me.

a season passes…
carrying all its flowers
to emerge as buds

Watching for thrushes that grow moist from dusky froth , my heels trek along deepened clay. As I lay on haystacks listening to stars chiming, the inky moon sinks its riddled face through a veil. Somehow, I feel alone...abandoned  like the  opera of a heart which seems to fall into a tragic ending. Yes, Grandpa isn’t around any longer, as a requiem of tears swells.

on this barren field…
a solitary twig cracks
from one glittered tree

The nightfall drools looking for the yellow among clouds. For a while, the hazy outlines of strangers--native women and children ---disturb my old revelries  when Grandpa would linger by the porch dipping tunes from his violin. Through calm intervals of laughter, we sway together;  fire to air, salt to honey. Much as I need to inhabit this space, it no longer belongs to me, or to him. But twilight comes brimming with all the glistened jewels of our own world.

between two lifetimes
is a haunting melody…
like a song unsung


11/19/2015
Creative Haibuns Contest
For Charlotte Jade Puddifoot




Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2015

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Sepia Recollections



I sit here on the old porch steps, that I have always known
A weathered stoop, with gray floorboards
with creaks and groans, flaws and chips, ... familiar to my hand 
I have come to some conclusion,
and I'm surprised to understand, 
how well I know each board, each slat,
the shape, the size, the warps, the cracks 
each rusty nail, ....
but not the facts of you.  

Oh yes, ...    I've seen a glimpse or two, 
in photographs.     I have a few...
I see a robust man, in yellowed hues,  of vintage stock...
By a house, a barn, where land is strewn with stones to move. 
You stand behind a horse and plow, in coveralls,... a mustache too . 

I do recall, so vaguely gray,  as gray as the paint beneath my hand...
a jolly man, a wrinkled face, 
with a smile, a laugh, a loving way
 
A dream I have, or is it real?  
Is that me when I was two,...  sitting here, beside you then?
Or is it just my wish to know... more than just a trace of you?

I never knew the man you were, your hopes your dreams...  
the thousand schemes that brought you to these rocky slopes 
so far from where your hopes began
Where the steep cliffs rose and seas were blue.  

Today, beyond these furrowed rows,...
tall grasses grow in amber waves
The eyes will wander, and shadows grow

I ponder how it came to be....
that I am me,.... 
   who came from you;        

                a man I never knew. 


_____________________________________________________________
Carrie Richards


(To watch the youtube video recitation:)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hF4GCLqf9_o


Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2013

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- On The Moon -

Thea, grandfather Alferd's dog died, she was so old and sick
Now is Thea on the moon, says Adrian who is six

Michael Jackson died so unexpectedly and abruptly
He is on the moon and plays with Thea, says Adrian who is a big fan

Betzy, grandfather Arild's dog died, she was also old and sick
Now Betzy is also on the moon with Thea and Michael Jackson and play all day

Great Grandmother died so unexpectedly and abruptly
Adrian who is six had difficulty understanding

Adrian who is six cried many tears for Great Grandmother
but comforted himself with the fact that she is sitting on the moon and
makes waffles to Thea, Michael Jackson and Betzy




04.11.2012
A-L Andresen :)  - A true story -
Copyright © All Rights Reserved


Copyright © Sunshine Smile | Year Posted 2012

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Mirror Ball

I'm sure this hill is where it stood.
Amazing shapes of stuccoed wood.
A glass-brick, neon stream-lined place.
As if it flew from outer space,

A swing band auditorium,
An Art Deco emporium,
When romance, innocent in pace,
From dancing to a teasing chase.

The town grew west in modern haste
And down it came, without a trace.
The war and culture's change in taste,
Predestined doom, the past erased.

The future sighs, with solemn face
The wrecking ball, the glittered waste
No plaque to read "Historic Sight".
The swirling dust, a dance goodnight.


Gene Bourne
08-01-14
.


Copyright © Gene Bourne | Year Posted 2014

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AT AGE TEN



On this October's mild stirrings
I watched ached nights flicker, to glow 
Around his hair like angel wings
Recalling joyrides... so mellow.
That in hushed tones,I called Gramps' name
Enshrined within my youth's warm space...
My hands folded with love aflame,
While prayers spilled through chill's embrace.
Though failing heart quivered in ticks,
Faith...way back then when I was ten
Gripped, he was nearing sixty six
As prayers trailed,wafting amen.

Until spring came, Gramps' flare restored
With new life blessed from harbor's ward.


..........
Way Back Then When I Was Ten
	Kelly Deschler's Contest
1/30/2016
----------------------







Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2016

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Santa's Special Delivery: a collab

Brutal was the biting wind,
sweeping brown locks of a tiny urchin 
side to side, often hiding her eyes.
 
Oversized slippers she had donned
were lost in deep snow drifts.
She plodded forth barefoot, risking frostbite.
 
Little daylight remained to guide her;
a dangerous holiday trek she undertook.
Villagers in passing carriages didn't notice her.
 
With snow falling fast and accumulations growing deep,
she didn't realize she'd left the main road.
If only she could find her grandfather's cottage!
 
For Christmas Eve it was,
but in her heart there was no joy.
Her cruel stepmother’s house she left in search of love.
 
As darkness fell, the biting cold increased.
Her weary legs she dragged; with teary eyes she searched
in vain, for only shadows could she see.
 
A green-clad elf with lantern lit was homeward bound
deep in the woods, when all at once he spied this forlorn girl,
sprawled on the snow deprived of strength and shivering.
 
He shone the light on her white face; eyelids moved and flickered.
He read her thoughts and understood; he knew just how to help her. 
No time was lost; his crystal flute he blew to call his trusted friends. 
 
An entire family of elves pulled the shivering child,
placing her gently on a sled,
fully decked out in Christmas flare.
 
The elves had been on their way to Santa;
Yuletide deliveries had to be made, 
but the wee girl's plight took priority.
 
Once she was aboard the sled,  
reindeer arrived on cue,
ushering the crew to the North Pole.
 
The little girl came to quickly,
nestled in Santa's arms.  
With pleasure he brought her to her grandfather's cottage.
 
Grandfather sat alone by his roaring fire
when a knock came to the door.
He went to see who it could be so late into the night.
 
There on the doorstep his young granddaughter stood with shining eyes,
a dream come true for those who never give up hope.
He picked her up in welcome arms, a warm embrace of love.
 
The clock struck twelve. They heard the sound of jingling bells
as Santa waved goodbye and off he sped across the sky.
Christmas had arrived, and his first gift had been delivered! 

 
[Inspired by the first paragraph of The Little Match Girl by H.C. Andersen]

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Co-written by: Paul Callus~Carolyn Devonshire~Valentina Stagno-Navarra
Contest: A Christmas Tale
Sponsor: Debbie Guzzi
Placed: 1st



Copyright © Paul Callus | Year Posted 2014

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Dementia

He was always so happy
strong and bold.
He'd give you the shirt off of his back.
Tough.
Independent.
He had a rough life
growing up through the depression,
but like he always does,
he got through it.
He has two boys, of whom he is so proud.
Moved from Regina, to Victoria.
He had the best life anyone his age could have wanted.
But ever since his wife died, 
he has not been the same.
Sad
Lonely
Empty.
But like he has always done,
he got through it.
Mind slipping, 
just a little forgetful.
That's how it always starts out...
But like always, he powered through it, 
until now...
He is not the same person that I used to know.
He been sentenced to the prison in his own mind.
Possessed by the thoughts of his dogs ashes.
He likes to play the blame game,
but we know he doesn't remember that it was him.
He wakes up in the night
shaking with pain, 
tears streaming down his face.
There is nothing we can do,
Oh well...
Two more tylenol.
Hold on to hope
for as long as you can,
It's only a matter of time now.
He gets vocal, a very loud tone.
He'll block you in your room
and make false accusations
But we know that it's the pain induced monster in him.
Tick tock, tick tock...
You can't handle the stress anymore
you have to leave.
Just hope for the best, 
maybe it will get better.
Surprise, it doesn't.
Your denial is foolish, everyone knows 
what happens next.
Sedation
Medication
Anger
Hurt
All results of
dementia


Copyright © Laura Hamilton | Year Posted 2013

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Heart Of Gold

I sold my heart of gold
To the old man with a heart so cold.

Though it seemed I had sold my soul to the devil,
Truth be told, the old man was never evil.


Copyright © Marissa Faries | Year Posted 2014

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'Love me with your Time'


I might make a noise right now There will be a time when I go silent Will you miss my racket? In those days of silence? I will no longer yearn for your presence Like I do at this very moment Will you wonder? Will you wish? For that good morning? I might be a nuisance right now I might ask you the same thing over and over One day Some day My voice will go silent All I ask today is be patient with me Please love me; with your ears Please love me; with your time Before all you will have Is my grave and the memories…
"Thoughts of the aged - loneliness don't discriminate " ©134517022015


Copyright © Wilma Neels | Year Posted 2015

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Dear Grandpa

The leaves have turned brown and crisp
And I've remembered 
How much you've been missed
On a day like today 

It's the days when I feel down
And I'm sad
That you're not around 
Desperately in need of a grandpa's embrace

You were like my best friend 
And I'm yearning 
For the hours we'd laugh on end.
Now I'm doing quite the opposite 

The memories harvest in my mind
As I bow to your grave 
With flowers of all kinds
Commemorating the part you played
In shaping the person I am today. 

Yours sincerely, 
A granddaughter that misses you dearly. 


Copyright © Emmy Weatherill | Year Posted 2015

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Jesyca

Jesyca
A little girl full of life
With so much love for her papa
It was love at first sight when papa laid eyes on her at her birth
Being her nanny papa never laid her down but cradled her in his arms until it was time to leave
He was mama until she was two
When he would say “No, “Papa”
She would say, “No,” Mama”
He taught her to ride her first tricycle
He taught her to throw her first ball
He helped her with her homework when she started school
Once in a while she calls and asks “Papa would you come to school today and have lunch with me.”
And of course Papa cannot say no to his little girl
Her first baseball game was a t-ball team of all boys and one girl of course she out shined them all and took home the winning game ball 
The next few years she’s made the all –star softball team
At eight years old now coaches are watching her to get her on their team
By Eve Roper
9-10-2014


Copyright © Eve Roper | Year Posted 2014

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Wood Carving

            Wood Carving


He sits there, not quite motionless, for
even the comfortable must alter their
perception occasionally, frozen stare
upon a craggy visage, tiny fox-like predator
eyes peering into your soul.  “What are his
origins?” ask the bespectacled intellectuals.
“Who is he?” and “Why has he taken up
his unwelcome residence here?”  The buses
pass carrying workers, students, captains
of industry. They look at him but they do
not see him.  The children see him.
Wonder in their dreams how he came
to be.  Some want to be rid of him.
They have no reason, no justification
for alarm, nothing to warrant their
uneasiness.  One daring young lady
sat beside him, whispered a secret to
him, both shook with laughter.
Passersby were startled to see the
interaction and summoned the
the childs mother.  “What have you
taught her that makes her think that
she can do such things?”  They asked.
The young lady tried to speak but was
hushed by the serious looks she was
getting from the adults.  That evening at
bed time the young lady’s mother asked
her: “What did you say to him?”.  “I said:
‘You look like grandpa.”.  The mother sat
back, quieting a tear, and reminded the
young lady that her Grandpa was no
longer here.  “I know, Mommy”.  She said.
Well then, what did “he” say to you?”
The young lady sat up in bed and smiled
“He said that he was there every day,
and any time I wished to sit with him
and read to him it would be fine.”
“Mommy”, she said, “do you remember
grandpa”?  “You know …how his face was
all rough, and his hands hard and
spidery, and how he would like it when
I sat with him and read?”  The tear that
had been held “quiet” made a sound,
ran down the mother’s face as she
hugged her daughter and put her
to bed.  The next day mother and daughter
walked to the old tree, felt the roughness
of his face, touched his spidery thin
branches, sat with him – and read.
Soon others came to visit, sitting and
whispering, laughing and reading.
for they know who he is, what his
origins are, why “he” waits so patiently.


John G. Lawless
9/27/2014

For PD's WHATEVER - Poetry Contest


Copyright © John lawless | Year Posted 2014

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To My Wife Grandpa Murray's voice

I wandered and travelled
Nor knew where I'd gone .
Life became a problem;
T'was one long cruel song.

My problems seem to multiply;
They came from every side.
I vowed to find the answer;
by this I would abide.

I looked into nature
And tore apart my mind.
Then put them on the table
To see what I could find.

I found that I'de been greedy
and avaricious, too.
Whenever projects of mine failed
I put the blame on you.

I found that I was lonely;
I thought you didn't care.
But what I really didn't know
Was you were always there.

You tried to fill the void
That always was in my Life.
you tried to ease the sorrow
You've been a real good Wife.
 
                           Yvette & Grandpa Murray  
          From James Murray to , Janet Murray ..his beautiful wife.
" In great respect of Grandfather Murray's poem he wrote for my  Grandmother Murray "


Copyright © Shanity Rain | Year Posted 2013

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My Origin

Where do I come from? Well we all come 
from somewhere. I was born in a small 
town, here in in good old U S of A. South 
to the border, by the Rio Grand. Mission 
Texas is the town's name.

My real parents came from Mexico. My
grandmother, it was said  - she came from 
Spain. My grandfather was indian. He fought 
in the Revolution. Both were on my mother's
side.

On my father's side, never knew too much, 
only that the grandmother died kind of 
young. The grandfather died years later, but
I never got to know them.

My father left my mom, when I was only three.
He never came back. My mother gave away my 
sisters, than later she gave me. She only kept
my brother, maybe she couldn't keep me.

I was raised with a nice lady and her husband.
I learned to call her mom. That title she had 
earned and my respect most of all. My parents
that raised me were poor, but made sure I had 
something to eat. My mother made my dresses 
so that I could go to school.

I learned to read and write and enjoyed school
very much, but I had to quit at fifteen to help my
parents out. Years later I went back and finished
my High School. 

I did not go to college , or mastered in any degree. 
I am what you might call self taught. For about thirty
years I worked with electronics and did my job well.
I gained respect from my bosses and high top
engineers.

My parents taught me good values that have helped 
me  through out life. I am not ashamed of my 
origin, of Mexican Heritage I came. I am what you
would call a TEX. MEX. and I live up to my name...

Just a little about myself. Hope
you enjoy it.

written by Lucilla M. Carrillo


Copyright © Lucilla Carrillo | Year Posted 2012

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The Pilgrimage

They fought the tide to own this land
A fight I did not understand
They fought the plow, they fought the drought, they fought the debt
But yet,…by God,……they owned the pride

In retrospect, I'm still ashamed
It was, my flippant pilgrimage
I had come a stranger to this place
About to step upon the moon,
A cratered space of rocks and sage
Of rolling hills, with no escape

She saw it differently, of course 
Although her body weary, worn
Her eyes were strong, ...she saw a home

Her age was then, what mine is now
It had been her home, and it had been her vow
To come again, just one more time.  

I was thirteen, and dragged along
I overlooked the great attraction
I could not see the satisfaction
I missed the light upon her face

She saw the youth she left behind
Her gray eyes drinking up the sun, 
I saw the dust, I saw the bones, 
Where she saw beauty,  I saw none .....
 
Nothing more than a sea of weeds, the crumbling brick, 
A place to shuffle my restless feet

But stories came, and they sunk in….
And now I view with wiser eyes…
She told me all these things back then…but now, I smile,… remembering.

     They had to fight to own this piece of land
     They fought the plow, they fought the drought, they fought the debt
     And yet,…oh yes,…….they owned the pride


                                                 ~~



Recited on youtube       http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kAchI2nu9yY

_______________________________________________________________
For Deb's Contest:....2nd Option..(With age comes wisdom, understanding and
                                                  appreciation. I am never too old to keep learning
                                                  and value those who came before and made me
                                                  who I am.)



______________________________________________________________


Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2013

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Grandpa's Love

Grandpa's Love

Of all the different kinds of love with which we could be blessed,
perhaps it is our Grandpas love that ranks among the best. 
What truly matters most in life, he's lived enough to know
and nothing's more important than to help his family grow.

All the little twists and turns that life has thrown so far,
times have changed alot since then but he's been where we are.
Grandpa knows how difficult adversity will be.
He's had his share of ups and downs and seen what our eyes see.

Grandpa has a gift to give that makes his life complete.
It's wisdom for the life we'll live, a gift that's bitter-sweet.
The years it takes to know such things consumed most of his days.
So little time we've left to learn from Grandpas wiser ways.

To see his family better off because of what he shared,
just knowing even one of us had listened so and cared,
A right of passage draws complete, accomplished and fulfilled
with all the things that matter most, successfully instilled.

The day will come when Grandpa won't be there to see us through
but all the things he taught us still remain forever true.
Just look inside your searching hearts, for there will Grandpa be,
saying "Do your best, stay the course and protect your integrity!"

                          -Jeannie Minor


Copyright © Jeannie Minor | Year Posted 2015

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My Grandfathers Bilum

Bilum is a type of woven bag in Papua New Guinea (PNG)
...............................

How grandfather’s bilum, which
Across my father’s bare chest,
In a loving embrace slung.
Like the Leleki baskets’ blest
How while so pregnant swung.

How dwelleth he my father in its rich
Splendour till handing-over of its rest,
Then over my clothed chest again sways.
O this old bilum! like all other blest
No longer is laden with in my days.

For its treasures I search in earnest,
That I may grandfather’s mind know.
O this bilum is no longer pregnant!
Along the way, maybe some time ago,
How many treasures fade; this instant

Till my sleep, I’ll summon eagerness
To my modern soul strengthened to seek.
Grandfather’s treasures may be hidden;
Yet through a new eye must I ever peek
For glimpses my days have forbidden.

By: Jeffrey Febi        25 Oct 2010


Copyright © Jeffrey Febi | Year Posted 2013

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Fractured

My grandfather on my father’s side, was a pecker-toothed sidle who raped his 
daughter when she was just ten. He threw down vodka from an eternal well and took my father out to buy prostitutes when he was just fifteen... It was here that my father first learned the true value of a woman. Mercifully, a permanent steel brace got loose at the Pennsylvania steel mill where he worked and crushed Grandfather into a pool of blood and urine.
     My father was a dried seed rattling in an empty gourd… he had grown up 
hardened with leather-stiff roots exposed too long in the sun. My mother knew 
that he wanted to rape me, so I kept guard with knives and ran away whenever I could. I went to bed fantasizing how to sneak into his bedroom and kill him with 
the kitchen carving knife. 
      My older brother hadn’t adjusted well to the chaos either, so he put all his expectations and dreams into a matchbook and burned down three houses in the neighborhood. He secretly, robbed his friends of their valuable coin collections. He grew weary and confessed and was taken to a local Mental Hospital for evaluation. At fourteen, I needed a good stiff drink! I was transferred to two different foster care homes and grew up like a weed.
     My mother Dolly was an auburn haired porcelain bisque, matt finished doll from a
discriminating collections of dolls... her father's dolls. She was not a witty woman 
but silent, afraid and alone. She gave birth to three children who grew up like 
wild dogs while Dolly made Betty Crocker weekends and otherwise TV dinners 
until she grew tired... very tired.
      One day the brothers were playing with Dolly tossing her back and forth… 
like a ball, one to another... until we dropped her. Fragile, she shattered into pieces 
on the gray cement patio. My father came out determined to put the pieces back 
together but clumsily, he repeatedly stepped on Dolly crushing the refined 
fragments into powdered dust.


Copyright © julie heckman | Year Posted 2011

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Shades of Life

Extended family, children play 
as sunbeams fall all slanted,
‘round a wooden table in the shade 
of a tree great-grandpa planted.
I like to think he smiled back then,
with sweaty brow, and handsome grin.
Old and wise – I’m sure he knew, 
in time his tree would block the view.
I wonder if he thought about,
his family tree - with branches out.
The bonds of blood are strong and grew.
So has the shade he never knew…

Copyright © 2014



Copyright © Cole Banner | Year Posted 2014

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The Blessings of Grandfathers Beautiful Lies

Impressionable young hearts do tell the grandest lies
When learned from grandfathers with sparkling eyes
Grandfathers living renewed through the breath of a grandchild

Oh grandfathers’ whoppers told in all kindness and glory
The bigger the whopper makes the child’s lies the cute little story
Thus the grandchild’s faith breeching walls of reasonable reality 
Simply because beloved grandfather had told the story
My grandfather said it was so- tiny voice of pledged belief
And I believe him -for grandfather would never lie to me

So sleep little one- dream the telling’s of funny grandfathers beloved
For their little lies to you are meant to not make you a worried
But make you believe in the impossibilities of grandeur and extravagance 
There is a Santa Clause
The fish really was so big it couldn’t fit in the boat
I wrestled a grizzly when I was just about your age

For in the telling of such blessed little lies
A remembrance of grandfather will never die
The wisdom and laughter thus remembered in each time’s telling
Will warm you over and over- as little lies do you begin the telling 


Copyright © Mark Goodson | Year Posted 2012

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Grandma Phoned

I have loved him since I was young.
Through every cloud, he rose the sun.
His work was honest – one-on-one with land.
I loved this farmer and his callused hands!
Safe, strong arms would lift me to sit upon his tractor.
Picture girl and Grandpa - no memory could be happier.

Today, I took the inherited watch from my mantle.
Now the cherished timepiece accompanies my flight,
Perhaps lending faith to my emotional plight.
Precious ticking in my pocket comforts my destination;
Brings forth his presence and I will not try to stop it
For the watch soothes my driving desperation.

Steering, I experience a constant sense of feeling
That wings have sprouted beneath my vehicle this day
As prayer of golden air to deliver me straight there.
So many endless miles of thunder under my wheels.
Thoughts ever somber tumble various appeals.
I gasp down feelings he may leave before I show.
He stays in my heart’s eye while I consume highway
On burning, dedicated tires determined to fly
Because Grandma phoned to say, Grandpa would soon die.



Contest:  Stand by Your Man
Sponsor: Silent One
Third Place



Copyright © CayCay Jennings | Year Posted 2015

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Pure Of Heart

Wise Grandfather Shaman, 
I am pure of Heart,
I bathe beneath the Moon, 
and dry beneath the Sun,
I listen to the Wind,
I run with the Deer,
I hunt with the Wolves,
I fish with the Eagles and Hawks,
I ride with the Wild Paints,
And roam with the Buffalo,
I grow with Grandmother Tree,
Ever learning from her Wisdom, 
I am skilled in Warrior Ways,
A strong Hunter, 
A compassionate Listener,
A patient Tracker,
I have gathered with the other women,
Contributing to our tribes growth and strength,
I leave no tracks of moccasins in the soft clay,
My heart is pure,
And I wish to continue my journy,
Wise Grandfather Shaman,
Allow me to enter your lodge,
I will smoke from the sacred pipe,
My heart is pure.


Copyright © Jay Loveless | Year Posted 2012

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Ninety Years

You see him at the store sometimes
He doesn’t walk too fast
His stride has slowed throughout the years
He slowly moves on past

The hair upon his head is white
If there’s any there at all
He may be stooped or bent a bit 
A cane so he won’t fall

He smiles but you don’t know his name
He waves a weathered hand
You might smile back and say hello
There goes a nice old man

What you don’t see beyond his face
His life of ninety years
The wife he met the kids he’s raised
The joys and work and tears

The letters won for high schools sports
The girls he used to date
The time his father grounded him
For coming home too late

The war he fought for freedom’s sake
Tales too hard to speak
The friends he lost the wounds he bore
The tears upon his cheeks

The job he worked for forty years
That kept his family fed
The home he built with his two hands
The church group that he led

Time and youth have slipped away 
His mind is not as clear
His friends have mostly left this earth
He’s lost his wife so dear.

When next you see an aged gent
Who passes through your day
There’s more to him than leathered skin
There’s much that he could say


He doesn’t want your sympathy
Nor pity could he stand
Don’t treat him like a feeble child
Approach him as a man.

He still remembers all he’s done
He hasn’t lost his pride
Respect his years for you’ll be there
And know his heart inside 


Copyright © John Curtis | Year Posted 2013

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Personal Memories


Personal Memories - Three Generations


Three generations in between them now so kindly lie;

sweet great granddaughter and great grand-papa can now belie
 
those years.  She reads to him, and he so tenderly sits by...

two children now, they share these moments that now clarify

the bond of one on one where young and old does not apply.


Sandra M. Haight

~1st Place~
Contest: Personal Memories-Monorhyme Poetry
Sponsor: Laura Loo
Iambic Heptameter - 14 syllables and 7 feet per line
Judged: 03/30/2016

Used Photo #3 - Laura Loo's daughter Ella reading to her great grand-papa
 


Copyright © Sandra Haight | Year Posted 2016