Writing Grandmother Poems

These Writing Grandmother poems are examples of Writing poems about Grandmother. These are the best examples of Writing Grandmother poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

If you don't find the poem you want here, try our incredible, super duper, all-knowing, advanced poem search engine.


The poem(s) are below...



Details | Acrostic |
P-oetess, who is so GREAT and LOVELY
O-n  the pedestal, I look up at her with so much glee
E-verything she writes are splendid and they all inspire me
T-eaching  me unique writing styles, drawing me to pen more with piquancy.

D-estroyer is a nice name  giving me good impressions
E-ncouragement through her comments, destroy all my writing inhibitions
S-o grateful that heaven brings  her as one of my precious gems
T-ruly, I will forever treasure her in reality and in my dreams
R-ight here in my heart and mind, I sincerely admire her
O-h, what a great mother, grandmother and also a sweet friend and sister!
Y-earning to meet her someday,  I still wonder
E-nchanting names she has are giving me puzzles
R-esolve my doubts, who is  Skat and Linda who has the same name as her bf forever?
        





Written: Sept. 6, 2012


10th Place Winner
Contest: Curiosity Killed the Cat Harry Horsman and Mandy Tams
Judged: 10/3/2012
Poet Sponsor: Harry Horsman

Copyright © Galeo DS | Year Posted 2012




Details | Free verse |
Her letters came with regularity,
full of news and everyday ordinary things.
"I love your letters," she said.
"They're just like talking to you."

I wrote to my grandmother,
for all of her days. 
My missives spelled graduation,
my first job,
our hurry-up wedding,
your mission in Japan,
the move out west,
return to mid-country,
and the birth of each child-
everyday ordinary things.

I think she hovers over my shoulder
as I write to the grandchildren,
those chatty emails full of news
and everyday ordinary things.

No stamp required, 
	say what you want,
		        press send.

They'll read them, 
	         perhaps, 
		        and hit delete.

Copyright © Cona Adams | Year Posted 2014

Details | Free verse |
Grandmother pointed out warning signs on the apples.
Her strong voice resonated as she referenced bruises and marks.
Her wrinkled hands brushed over minute holes and obvious incisions.
She clutched the apples in her weather-worn palms
without uttering a single word.

She carefully lifted each apple to her nostrils
and then began discarding them respectively into the two bushels.
By days end, both bushels were full.
I softly said...
"What shall I do now with my bushel, Grandmother?"
She laughed and kissed me on my cheek whispering...
"We shall bring them back to Grandma's kitchen.
We will then transform these delectable fruits into an exquisite pie.

A pie pleasant to the nostrils.
A pie warm and sweet to your tongue.
A pie brilliant to behold and soothing 
to your little tummy and giant heart.
A pie that will make my grandson feel happy and content inside.
A pie baked with love and truth and honesty".

And I replied..."And what are you going to do with your bushel, Grandma?"
"Well, my dear,
I will OVERTURN my bushel and THROW these apples OUT!" – 
she dramatically replied.
"For they are bad and serve no purpose in my kitchen."

It's been many years later, my dearest one.
And late this evening I have been reviewing our union.
I fetched myself a writing tablet and a pen.
I leafed to a clean page where I then assembled two bushels.
To the left hand side of the page I situated your Advantage bushel.
The right hand side of the page underscored your Disadvantages.

I began to think as Grandmother would.
A keen eye for detail and clarity
whispered her loving observations into my ears
like an invisible windsong.

By midnight,
the blank page was now devoid of it's once white canvas.
I looked at the bushel to the left -
then quietly stared at the bushel to my right.
The bushel to the right was sated
whereas the bushel to the left was sadly barren and almost empty.

I reviewed the two bushels a final time.
I took a deep breath and 
gently placed my pen and tablet atop my writing table.
My dearest one,
although you're not here tonight -
I realized my life 
needs to have the bad apples banished.
I silently apologized to you 
as I picked up the bushel to the right
and without uttering a single word -

I finished my last fork full of apple pie 
and switched off the light.
I shed a solemn teardrop that bore your name
puffed up my pillows
gently overturned the bushel

and contentedly

threw you out.

Copyright © John Heck | Year Posted 2009




Details | Bio |
Poetry Writing #2 Bio

Art Reflection  

Creative, sensitive, loves unconditionally, spiritual believes

Wife of Sonny, mother of all my children, and grandmother to my grandchildren

Who loves God’s earth creation, freedom to do as I wish, and creating artwork

Who hates discrimination, bullying, and Liquorice

Who fears of losing touch with God, a loved one, or my memory

Who would like to see my children happy free of suffering, my grandchildren to 
follow their dreams, unity within my brother and sisters and to cherish every moment they have.

Born and reside in Texas 

Art Reflection  

12/20/2015

Copyright © Eve Roper | Year Posted 2015

Details | I do not know? |
MUM ...

WHERE DO I START? I DON'T THINK THERE IS WORDS , TO EXPLAIN HOW I AM 


FEELING ABOUT THE LOSS OF YOU... BUT I WILL USE ALL THE STRENGTH YOU HAVE 


GIVEN TO ME , SO I CAN GET THESE FINAL WORDS OUT THE GUILT , SADNESS AND 

REGRET  FROM NOT SEEING YOU LIKE I WANTED TO  SO ****ING MUCH ,

 THEN THE PAIN OF NOT HAVING  A CHANCE TO SAY "GOODBYE" TO THE MOST 

BEAUTIFUL MOTHER COULD WANT, AND YES MUM I'M TALKING ABOUT YOUTO HOLD 

YOUR HAND, TO SEE YOU SMILE , TO HEAR YOUR VOICE, WOULD MAKE MY LIFE MORE 

WORTHWHILE. YOU TAUGHT ME HOW TO LIVE, BUT YOU NEVER TAUGHT ME HOW TO 

LIVE WITHOUT YOU I MISS YOU SO SO MUCH MUM, BUT THE LOVE IN MY HEART FOR YOU , WILL MAKE SURE 

YOUR LIFE , LOVE , WARMTH AND TOUCH , WILL LIVE ON FOREVER , 

IN ME I KNOW THAT YOU CHANGED ME , JUST FROM YOUR 

PRESENCE...THATS'S HOW STRONG YOU WERE MUM I KNOW YOU HAVEN'T LEFT ME , 

FOR THE LOVE IN MY HEART REMAINS , YOU WILL NEVER HAVE TO SUFFER AND YOUR 

BODY WILL FEEL NO PAIN...... GOD TOOK YOUR HAND , AND MADE US PART , HE CLOSED 

YOUR EYES , AND BROKE MY HEART ....FOR ALL THE TIMES WE HAVE BEEN TOGETHER,

I WILL NEVER FORGET YOUR FACE.

THERE IS NO MOTHER ANYWHERE LIKE YOU,

NO ONE COULD TAKE YOUR PLACE.

IF ONLY I HAD KNOWN YOU WERE LEAVING,

I GUESS I EXPECTED YOU TO FOREVER LAST,

ALL OF THE DREAMS OF US IN THE FUTURE,

ARE NOW BUT MEMORIES OF THE PAST.

GOD TAPPED YOU ON THE SHOULDER,

HE WAS THE ONLY ONE WHO KNEW,

THAT YOU WERE GOING WITH HIM,

TO THE SKY SO BEAUTIFUL BLUE.

ALTHOUGH I MAY NEVER SEE YOU MUM,

ARJAY WILL BE BY YOUR SIDE,

HE'S GONNA HOLD YOUR HAND,

AND LEAD THE WAY,

FOR HE WILL BE YOUR GUIDE.....

I LOVE YOU MY MOTHER.....
DON'T TELL ME THAT YOU UNDERSTAND, 
DON'T TELL ME THAT YOU KNOW,
DON'T TELL ME THAT I WILL SURVIVE,
HOW I WILL SURELY GROW.
DON'T TELL ME THIS IS JUST A TEST,
THAT I AM TRULY BLESSED,
THAT I AM CHOSEN FOR THIS TASK,
APART FROM ALL THE REST.
DON'T COME AT ME WITH  ANSWERS THAT CAN ONLY COME FROM ME,
DON'T TELL ME HOW MY GRIEF WILL PASS,
THAT I WILL SOON BE FREE.
DON'T STAND IN PIOUS JUDGMENT OF THE BONDS I MUST UNTIE,
DON'T TELL ME HOW TO SUFFER,
DON'T TELL ME HOW TO CRY.
MY LIFE IS FILLED WITH SELFISHNESS,
MY PAIN IS ALL I SEE,
BUT I  NEED YOU,
I NEED YOU YOUR LOVE UNCONDITONALLY.
ACCEPCT ME IN MY UPS AND DOWNS,
I NEED SOMEONE TO SHARE,
JUST TO HOLD MY HAND AND LET ME CRY,
AND SAY, MY FRIEND I REALLY DO CARE
Mom you mean the world to me
It’s hard to live without you ,You were always by my side
Through thick and thin you helped me

Copyright © MIKAYLA BROWN | Year Posted 2013

Details | Lay |
Unquotable quotes: The How of Democratic Kill – XXXIX, Part One

Born in 1868, Alexei Maximovich PESHKOV, better known as MAXIM GORKY and hailed as the chief proponent of Soviet literature, the veritable champion of the proletariat and the downtrodden masses, and who counted among his foremost friends LENIN, STALIN and TROTSKY, was poisoned with camphor by his doctor Levin at the instigation of Yagoda, the former Chief of Secret Police in 1936. His father passed away when he was five, and his paternal grandfather turned him out of the family home after subjecting him to merciless thrashings which had him bed-ridden for weeks at a time. He was condemned to roam the streets and wilds for a living right from his teens and his attempted suicide ruined his own lungs for life. His experiences, unlike those of the cosetted and untrammeled bourgeois Tolstoy's (whose wife besides slaved as his literary amanuensis: no resemblance to Patricia and Naipaul though), fed his immensely popular stories, novels, plays, articles and his autobiographical trilogy, culled from living in Russia (Nizhny, Novgorod), Georgia (Tiflis), Italy (Sorrentino, Capri) and the USA (New York).


 For Alexei Maximovich PESHKOV, the reputed “Father of      
          Soviet Literature”

Now the Cossack rode roughshod
   From Novgorod to Vladivostock
Trans-Siberian rocked the railroad 
   -40° suckled by deepfreeze livestock
Tartar’s shuddered locks splayed on docks
   On Syrian shores an Assad naval sword

          Levin commits sin
             in Stalin’s Krêmlin
          Yagoda in Tsarist skin
             makes Lenin turn Putin 

Who executed the high Bolshoi entrechat
   on the battleship Potemkin
Was it Kerensky or the scélerat
   or Rasputin under Romanov skin
Unstrip the balalaika chez the Peshkov
   to let grandma kitchen tales unfold

          Levin commits sin
             in Stalin’s Krêmlin
          Yagoda in Tsarist skin
             makes Putin turn Lenin 
 
Go now Ivanko! Cut hermit Miron’s head off
   and his prayer for mankind eternally cold
Ivan the Terrible’ll make Daech listen to Lavrov
   no camphor poison could ever be Soviet sold
Did Yagoda tell Saudi Prince Al-Qaïda off
   Or a Putin not bar lethal secret tatami hold

          Levin commits sin
             in Stalin’s Krêmlin
          Yagoda in Tsarist skin
             makes Lenin turn Putin 

No petty Levin plied the Volga or bakery
   Escaped the pogroms under Stalin enmity
The long arm of rivalry split Trotsky
    skull in exiled lost Méjico City
Drained the peoples’ lungs of victory
     In the proletariat Chief Maxim Gorky!  

          Levin commits sin
             in Stalin’s Krêmlin
          Yagoda in Tsarist skin
             makes Putin turn Lenin 

© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016





Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2016

Details | I do not know? |
MUM ...

WHERE DO I START? I DON'T THINK THERE IS WORDS , TO EXPLAIN HOW I AM 


FEELING ABOUT THE LOSS OF YOU... BUT I WILL USE ALL THE STRENGTH YOU HAVE 


GIVEN TO ME , SO I CAN GET THESE FINAL WORDS OUT THE GUILT , SADNESS AND 

REGRET  FROM NOT SEEING YOU LIKE I WANTED TO  SO ****ING MUCH ,

 THEN THE PAIN OF NOT HAVING  A CHANCE TO SAY "GOODBYE" TO THE MOST 

BEAUTIFUL MOTHER COULD WANT, AND YES MUM I'M TALKING ABOUT YOUTO HOLD 

YOUR HAND, TO SEE YOU SMILE , TO HEAR YOUR VOICE, WOULD MAKE MY LIFE MORE 

WORTHWHILE. YOU TAUGHT ME HOW TO LIVE, BUT YOU NEVER TAUGHT ME HOW TO 

LIVE WITHOUT YOU I MISS YOU SO SO MUCH MUM, BUT THE LOVE IN MY HEART FOR YOU , WILL MAKE SURE 

YOUR LIFE , LOVE , WARMTH AND TOUCH , WILL LIVE ON FOREVER , 

IN ME I KNOW THAT YOU CHANGED ME , JUST FROM YOUR 

PRESENCE...THATS'S HOW STRONG YOU WERE MUM I KNOW YOU HAVEN'T LEFT ME , 

FOR THE LOVE IN MY HEART REMAINS , YOU WILL NEVER HAVE TO SUFFER AND YOUR 

BODY WILL FEEL NO PAIN...... GOD TOOK YOUR HAND , AND MADE US PART , HE CLOSED 

YOUR EYES , AND BROKE MY HEART ....FOR ALL THE TIMES WE HAVE BEEN TOGETHER,

I WILL NEVER FORGET YOUR FACE.

THERE IS NO MOTHER ANYWHERE LIKE YOU,

NO ONE COULD TAKE YOUR PLACE.

IF ONLY I HAD KNOWN YOU WERE LEAVING,

I GUESS I EXPECTED YOU TO FOREVER LAST,

ALL OF THE DREAMS OF US IN THE FUTURE,

ARE NOW BUT MEMORIES OF THE PAST.

GOD TAPPED YOU ON THE SHOULDER,

HE WAS THE ONLY ONE WHO KNEW,

THAT YOU WERE GOING WITH HIM,

TO THE SKY SO BEAUTIFUL BLUE.

ALTHOUGH I MAY NEVER SEE YOU MUM,

ARJAY WILL BE BY YOUR SIDE,

HE'S GONNA HOLD YOUR HAND,

AND LEAD THE WAY,

FOR HE WILL BE YOUR GUIDE.....

I LOVE YOU MY MOTHER.....
DON'T TELL ME THAT YOU UNDERSTAND, 
DON'T TELL ME THAT YOU KNOW,
DON'T TELL ME THAT I WILL SURVIVE,
HOW I WILL SURELY GROW.
DON'T TELL ME THIS IS JUST A TEST,
THAT I AM TRULY BLESSED,
THAT I AM CHOSEN FOR THIS TASK,
APART FROM ALL THE REST.
DON'T COME AT ME WITH  ANSWERS THAT CAN ONLY COME FROM ME,
DON'T TELL ME HOW MY GRIEF WILL PASS,
THAT I WILL SOON BE FREE.
DON'T STAND IN PIOUS JUDGMENT OF THE BONDS I MUST UNTIE,
DON'T TELL ME HOW TO SUFFER,
DON'T TELL ME HOW TO CRY.
MY LIFE IS FILLED WITH SELFISHNESS,
MY PAIN IS ALL I SEE,
BUT I  NEED YOU,
I NEED YOU YOUR LOVE UNCONDITONALLY.
ACCEPCT ME IN MY UPS AND DOWNS,
I NEED SOMEONE TO SHARE,
JUST TO HOLD MY HAND AND LET ME CRY,
AND SAY, MY FRIEND I REALLY DO CARE
Mom you mean the world to me
It’s hard to live without you ,You were always by my side
Through thick and thin you helped me

Copyright © MIKAYLA BROWN | Year Posted 2013

Details | Free verse |
I arrive early for the meeting.
Row upon row of chairs
face forward, like a flock of sheep, 
nose to tail, waiting for a shepherd.

My grandmother raised sheep,
cows, pigs, geese, and children.
Grandpa buckled under tuburcolosis,
leaving her seven kids to raise.
"Waste not, want not," served well
as a mantra over rugged paths,
and pastured her fleecy days.

With no aid from government,
church, neighbor, or relative,
she prevailed where others failed,
sharing the bounty garnered 
from those wooly mammals 
of endless grazing.

As these empty chairs fill,
what shepherd will lead us
into the fold of words;
power words for change,
wisdom words for growth,
magic words for dreams,
with teeth piercing to the core,
strong jaws for chewing,
and sensitive tongue
to taste those other words
floating around these chairs
of tail-wagging writers?

Copyright © Cona Adams | Year Posted 2014

Details | Narrative |
Of course, as soon as a new poetry contest was posted I had to immediately enter.  In this 
contest, you had to email the sponsor to get your own, unique theme.  

Off went my email; back came her reply: “Write a poem about what inspired you to write 
poetry.”

She even included one of her poems as a sample of what she was looking for.  A beautiful 
poem indeed; relaying the story about how her Grandmother inspired her to write.  

So, I tried to emulate her with my story.

I wrote a poem about my football coach who taught me real men can write poetry without 
feeling emasculated.  A nice poem, albeit, total fiction.

I penned a verse about my first love encouraging me to write about our romance and how 
the subsequnt breakup inspired me to write about the sorrow of love lost.  A passionate and 
beautiful poem, although pure BS.

I rhymed the touching story about how my mother, on her deathbed, confessed that she 
knew I was writing poetry by reading my secret journal for years.  Her last words to me 
were to follow my passion and write poems for her in heaven.  Problem is, my mother is 
alive and well and has never shown any interest in reading my poems.

The fact of the matter is, I cannot pinpoint a moment in time; a person; or, an experience 
that inspired me to write.

Just as I need no inspiration to breathe in order to stay alive; I write poetry as a reflexive, 
survival instinct.

Just as I need no inspiration to eat in order to satisfy my hunger; I write poems to placate 
my yearning inside.

Just as I need no inspiration to dream when I close my eyes at night; words, rhymes and 
stories fill my mind whenever I find a moment of peace in my hectic day.

Whereas, I envy those who know where their inspiration came from, I am less blessed with a 
birth of inspiration and am more cursed with an innate need to write.

In my email to the sponsor, I bragged how I was up to the challenge, but, alas, she 
presented me with a theme I cannot relate to.

I will continue to breathe words of poetry through my keyboard.
I will continue to nourish my hunger through prose.
And, I will continue to dream in rhyme and meter.

But, I have no story to wow you with about what motivated me to do so in the first place.

The irony in all of this?  After admitting this truth about myself to a complete stranger in an 
otherwise meaningless contest, I am inspired to continue to feed my curse and write poetry 
forever more.

Thanks…damn you.

Copyright © Joe Flach | Year Posted 2010

Details | Free verse |
The author of the bible must have been god
for Jesus himself never wrote it
and i wonder if Jesus truly existed
then why are we not studying timeless works of art written by the first people
that learned how to read and write?
Another question plagues me
why are there legacies of family traditions of stories in families talked about
handed down from generation from generation
that yes your gret great grandmother was a witch burnt at the stake
or your great great grandfather was a black slave
but why I ask do we never hear those who brag 
through the testimonies of legacies of stories around campfires
that did you know your ancestor touched the hand of christ?
and this story of those days has been in our family for generations?

no one using logic how the world works?
true how quickly we forget
even war veterans pass down terrors of war tortures and terrors of such things
so why did we stop passing down the story of a god?

Is it because the author of the bible was god?
and he knew everthing that happened with jesus and Job
cain and Abel?
or was it just that one day there was a belief
and it was accepted
replaced an old belief
and murdered the old
and we praise it now?

Is this proof we are brainwashed?
gullible even
the fact that the old religion has more stories handed down in generations 
in family 
than this supposed god
who taught us all how to read or write?
I'm sure if i was there to be the first people to learn how to read and write
id write down some stories of the lessons i was taught
tell everyone i knew
of the man i had met who taught me
if the bible is true
and there were that many witnesses

I know id pass it down to my children
and my grandchildren
nieces and nephews



Copyright © Troy Nelson | Year Posted 2007

Details | Free verse |
Some live life relentless and chaotically, while others are more slowed down and care free. One thing most people have in common is Grandma's cooking, when I was younger its was who's grandma made the better cookies. Every time I would see her she always had all the goodies, blueberry muffins and banana bread in the oven baking. All of it was always made with her special love flavoring, and with all that her big smile made my heart feel so at ease. To all the grandma's in this crazy world we live you'll always be wonderful! And to my grandma I will never forget you or your amazing cooking!!
5/10/2017

Copyright © Jeremy Smith | Year Posted 2017

Details | Footle |
write it dear heart _______________________ November 21, 2017 Poetry/Footle Copyright Protected, ID 17-9641-51-0 All Rights Reserved.

Copyright © Broken Wings | Year Posted 2017