Tree Grandfather Poems | Tree Poems About Grandfather
These Tree Grandfather poems are examples of Tree poems about Grandfather. These are the best examples of Tree Grandfather poems written by international PoetrySoup poets
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Upon his grandfather's rocking chair
on the porch in the cool crisp air
sits a man with a special gift.
For he can see the soul of a tree
within a piece of wood upon his knee.
His pile of cedar gives off a sweet smell.
He picks through the pieces, eyes closed,
his touch feels what is enclosed.
As if he were to reach within the wood
by pulling it apart from its protective bark
and removing what’s inside from the dark.
The Whittler will release this soul from its cage!
Each meticulous movement of the knife in hand
is meant to bring out something so grand.
After hours of work, fingers cramping into knots
the soul held within in this piece arose
to be a magnificent fully blossomed rose.
Beautiful just like the ones his gram
planted beneath her father's old cedar tree, by hand.
Adam Hapworth, With These Hands, 12/13/2013, Image #3
Copyright © Adam Hapworth | Year Posted 2013
I sit before the February fire
and watch as flames die down to amber glow.
My grandson comes just in the nick of time
with wood to bring the ashes back to life.
I drift into the past, recalling joys
of boyhood times. I shared them with my sons.
I still can see them sitting at my feet
prepared to hear a fascinating tale.
One moving story starred a group of trees
that symbolized a generation's strength.
Their shading limbs and stately, genteel grace
were part and parcel of the life I knew.
My sons told no such stories to their sons.
They knew that tales of special trees would be
too sentimental for their modern taste,
for, after all, what is a tree but wood?
I sit alone and watch the blazing fire
devouring limbs sliced up by power saws
and carried in by younger, stronger men
who speak of how one tree will last till spring.
written in 1989
Copyright © Janice Canerdy | Year Posted 2016
This poem is for the Poetry Soup contest:
Tell His Story
Mach 15 2011-03-15
Sitting Eagle rests, with a tree at his back,
Playing his flute, to scare a wolf pack,
They have been hunting and following him throughout the whole night,
Escaping great peril in mother forest and sister moonlight,
He is a warrior and never gives up in fights,
But 20 wolves against one man just isn’t right,
With moccasins on feet and cowhides for pants,
He looks like a North American Indian at least at first glance,
He might be your grandfather from another time,
He might even be a grandfather of mine,
Sitting Eagle rests, with a tree at his back,
He’ll get home safe if he follows his tracks.
Copyright © Ross Levan | Year Posted 2011
I'm sitting in the garden
With my small son on my knee
He looks up at me with big brown eyes
And says “Tell me about Granda's tree”
My father planted a tree
In nineteen forty two
He nurtured it and hadn’t bargained
On just how big it grew
When I was just seven years old
I had a love of climbing trees
Many times mum put plasters
On my bloodied and skinned knees
I can remember one day
Wearing my new party dress
Peering in through the window
A grubby bedraggled mess
I’d climbed as high as I could go
Then heard a quite loud crack
The branch it snapped in two
And I landed on my back
I’d excelled myself on this occasion
You could say I’d gone the whole hog
I’d landed on a little offering
Left by next doors dog
I remember as a little girl
My father built me a house in the tree
A sturdy wooden house with windows
Especially for me
When I was in my tree house
I could be almost anywhere
In a tropical jungle
Or in a cave hiding from a grizzly bear
Hanging onto my rope ladder
With a plastic cutlass on my hip
I could be looking for buried treasure
My tree house a pirate ship
Underneath the carpet
In the middle of the floor
My father had lovingly made me
A little brass-hinged trap door
Whenever I got fed up
Of being stuck inside
I’d open up that trap door
And go straight down the slide
Sometimes I would stand
For maybe half an hour
And pretend I was a princess
Imprisoned in an ivory tower
Some days I’d be a cowgirl
On a wild west ranch
And sometimes I’d pretend to be
A monkey swinging from a branch
One day I picked some flowers
And mum asked what they were for
I said “they are for my cottage
With roses around the door”
My son is looking wistful
Then he smiles at me
He says “mummy I would love
To see my Granda’s tree”
Tears come into my eyes
My son’s smile turns into a frown
I say “The tree's no longer there
The new owners chopped it down”
My son says it is sad
That the tree's no longer there
But no-one can destroy the memories
That my son and I share
Copyright © Jenny Linsel | Year Posted 2017