Best Grandmother Poems | Poetry
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New Grandmother Poems
Don't stop! The most popular and best Grandmother poems are below this new poems list.
by parker, cs
by Acrich, Marc
Grandmother Always Encouraged 'Ten words ten lines 2' Contest
by Roper, Eve
To My Grandmother Nannie
by Trimble, Renee
Words to the Wise from a Depression Era Grandmother
by McCadden, Laura
GRANDMOTHER OF GROOM
by Rodrigues, Kim
A GRANDMOTHER KANGAROO'S POUCH
by Harris, Anita
The Visiting Grandmother
by Vine, Angeline
THIS IS OF MY GRANDMOTHER
by Lee Sr., James Edward
My Grandmother s Kaleidoscope
by M V, FABIYAS
View all new Grandmother Poems
The Best Grandmother Poems
Oh little one, how soon you'll be
In turbulence of puberty.
I will hold tight your days of youth
And share with you my honest truth
That innocence ingrained at birth,
Precious childhood days filled with mirth,
Will be so fleeting... you will see
The need for God's tranquility.
How grandma's age is redefined
When your teen years become aligned
With thoughts of struggles, I go through,
The many shades in every hue,
That colors life for me today.
In these sweet days, I watch you play
As I instill the grains of hope,
An inner strength to help you cope
With all the changes life will bring.
The ups and downs from early spring
Throughout your life in winter years
When you, like me, through joys and tears
Have lived a life you feel has worth;
Have given back to better earth.
When you have children of your own
And you too, see how they have grown,
My hope is that you let them know
That through their life where e'er they go
They carry with them bits of me,
Please share with them, tranquility.
© Connie Marcum Wong
Poem of the Day May 11, 2017
The teenage years and the golden years are
the most difficult to endure. Both are fraught
with emotions...of facing life...of facing death.
Enter your own competition - Poetry Contest-Tranquility N/A
Form I have chosen is Couplet
Sponsored by: Cecelia Hopkins-Drewer
One criterion I am striving to achieve: Spirituality
Copyright © Connie Marcum Wong | Year Posted 2017
~Summer’s Eve ~
I am a woman!
I am proud-
I am everything you want.
The adoring wife,
A beautiful mother,
A grandmother a granddaughter
A daughter, a sister,
A lover, the aunt.
Your enemy, your friend.
I am the working lady.
A widow left behind.
The Spawn of Adam's rib-
A mentor throughout this world.
A lady with class, sometimes a material girl.
A flower, and the sound of rain.
I am the color of the rainbow.
I am deeper than the sea.
I am the pink ribbon you wear.
I am delicate like snow.
The sun and the moon in your eyes.
A twister during dark skies.
The Daughter of Eve-
And, here is the only feeling I want to endorse.
In honor and appreciation to all the women of the world.
Happy Mother’s day!
Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2013
It is thirty six years ago, and I am with her in the garden,
where July is a picnic of egg sandwiches, cress-stippled,
fuzzy-downed peaches, yellow-tangy lemonade.
Her fingers have the delicacy of dancers
as she deftly mixes paint on a palette blue as the sky -
blobs of acrylics bright as sweet shop candies.
Summer is a sizzling colour wheel, spinning in its heat hues -
cadmium orange, pyrrole red, gold ochre -
those fever-flames that blaze across her page.
My small world is warmed by the sun in her smile.
Russian vine stitches a delicate doily over the shed roof.
The heat-glazed garden shimmers and buzzes.
There is a twilight world under sweet clusterings of lilacs:
a cool shock of shade, pendulous-legged black flies
hovering in the murky mauve.
China white stars of jasmine light my way.
Please keep me close. Let me stay.
It is twenty six years ago, a morning of mourning,
and the notes of the dead bells toll
as, mist-muffled, they roll
through November's sleet streets.
I close my eyes and the sun in her smile parts the clouds.
Sober-suited people crush and cluster in pews;
row upon row of perylene black, winter-pale faces titanium white.
Stained glass windows filter and warm the ash-grey light
until her coffin is a vibrant palette of rainbows.
There are stories - lots of stories - anecdotes,
a crimson-backed journal she wrote,
a painting she painted, coffin-propped,
a poetry reading - one of her own -
Tapestry is a wondrous thing, in it the lovely colours sing...
Creamed rice-colour roses heap sweet
on her stone - a slate plate serving up a dead name -
and carnations splash cadmium scarlet
like blood throbbing from the gash of grief's raw wound.
It is now, and I am alone, taking a short cut home
through evening's rich palette.
Elegiac elms shed viridian tears
and the sky is a burnt sienna explosion.
October's umber seeps into November's sepia tones.
My mind is coloured with her and then.
I hold a small cameo box that held
the colourful spill of her pills: kaleidoscope planets
orbiting my loneliness, spinning off into nothingness...
Dark figures fill the park: silhouettes, shadows
following me home; spirits stepped from her portraits,
faces pushed down into coat collars, crinkled with frowns.
Paint-pinned people in their primaries and pastels,
on canvas, under glass; stopped heartbeats of the past.
Trapped moments on paper and boards.
I close my eyes and see the sun in her smile,
recall how, since her passing, life has become a free fall,
a parapet leap without parachute.
And the smudged charcoals of memory
are beginning to blur, fading like her watercolours...
in memory of my grandmother
2nd place in contest 'Anything Goes', date judged 4/12/2014
date written 11/3/2013
Copyright © Charlotte Jade Puddifoot | Year Posted 2013
*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
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
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
Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2013
See the woman.
See the face behind its age.
See the beauty of her form.
See the way her way becomes her.
See past her once taught skin, as it was
when it enflamed many a man.
See the way she holds her head;
the tilt of her neck, the ease
of her being.
See the strength that binds her jaw,
unrelenting in its flex.
See her hurt displayed, as shadows
fall like night upon the earth,
eager for rest and resolution -
for the one she could not save.
See her darkness. See it very well.
See it shatter like glass, glinting,
when she giggles like a girl.
See her shine.
As the shades of dark days rise,
See the years that grace her eyes,
like rays of her own sun
exponentially shining forth.
See forgiveness in her patient hands
as they weave memories with a touch.
See the breadth of her breasts,
for they have quenched her children’s hunger,
soothed their frantic cries,
and became the safe haven for her beloved.
See her empty, scarred abdomen –
round and perfect in its imperfections,
once holding the essence of all things;
carrying creation within –
see the divine home of God.
See the innocent baby,
the impetuous youth,
the voluptuous woman,
the devoted wife,
the selfless mother.
See the wisdom of the grandmother –
the epitome of every moment lived
for someone else, and the realization
of the circle.
Hear the acceptance in her sigh.
See the gifts she has given –
see the woman!
See the goddess!
The beginning and the end!
See the infinite that bares the name,
See her for all that she is and isn’t.
Smell her scent and know you are home.
Taste the strength of her words on your tongue.
Hear her experiences like your own.
To touch her soul is to touch perpetuity!
See her face in your mirror.
See the tears that fall proudly
upon the woman you’ve become,
and hope yet to become
when you have lived through all that has been
set before you –
tasted each woman’s tears as if they were your own.
When you enter that perfect union,
when you become,
when you come
you will see yourself in all things,
and your journey, will see you back
*Reposted for Chris's Get Your Rebel On, Contest! This was written with my Beautiful
Grandmother in mind. She saved my life in more ways than one. love you, Gran. This one's
for you. (and every woman, and woman lover, here)
Copyright © Kristin Reynolds | Year Posted 2009
Original poem - For Grandma
You died grandma and my heart was broken,
At your funeral I stood there trembling;
And in the name of love words were spoken,
I needed to speak words without weeping.
Me, standing up front holding my papers,
There was a soft breeze caressing my hair;
I looked at your coffin and the flowers,
Oh, how I wished this was just a nightmare.
I started to speak in such a sad voice,
And then, I felt your great strength within me;
I spoke of your life so all could rejoice,
So filled with your love that I spoke so free.
Then, I felt the papers go fluttering,
And in the name of love, I was speaking.
New poem - Always For Grandma
And in the name of love, I was speaking,
As they put your coffin into the ground;
I looked calm but inside I was screaming,
Staying, until birds were the only sound.
Then, I went to the quiet of your home,
Wandering, I touched all your precious things;
And even to the attic, I went to roam,
Oh, grandma, your strength gave my poems wings.
It was you who gave me my first journal,
And you said, write it, write down all the pain;
My love for you grandma, is eternal,
And at last I wept, and outside was rain.
I lingered there for hours with memories,
Within me grandma, safe are your stories.
February 28, 2016
For the contest, Famous Last Line
sponsor, Laura Loo
Copyright © Broken Wings | Year Posted 2016
I have a special story I wish to share
About a seamstress beautiful and fair
She would fade away turning into smoke
Of her amazing beauty, no man would joke
The spiraling smoke would then re-form
I know only an angels face could be so warm
Before her a beautiful quilt was spread
Upon it the story of my life was said
As she once again started to dissipate
She said, “Mike this quilt records your fate”
As the smoke traveled over to a new place
And then formed together creating her face
Looking over her shoulder back at me
She said, “This area will hold what has yet to be”
Most of the quilt looked like twisted evil tattoo
Simply because, my life’s quilt was quilted true
I looked the quilt over and then met her gaze
She was so beautiful in so many different ways
The last part of the quilt way over to the right
Showed the beauty of someone changing their plight
Upon her beautiful hand, which seemed so nimble
I noticed she was wearing my grandmother’s thimble
From a young maiden so beautiful to see
My grandmother appeared right in front of me
I guess up in heaven we return to our youth
My grandmother was beautiful; such is the truth
I thought of the price grandma was asked to pay
The shame of knowing I had turned out that way
I thought of her sitting there stitching my shame
My grandmother didn’t deserve an eternity of pain
She said, “Michael be still with the pain in your heart,
Your story encourages others to make a new start.”
“The deeper the wrong the stronger the right
I always knew my boy would take up the fight”
With a smile much brighter than an ice covered sea
She said, “I love the man my boy has grown up to be”
As she turned to the quilt and started to sew
She said, “Michael, its now time for you to go.”
“Believe in your story believe in your truth
For Salvation is the true fountain of youth”
One night in a dream, which I’ll hold forever divine
I learned; my Grandmother is now,” The Seamstress of Time”
When I was a boy I would help my Grandmother roll
her quilt, find her glasses, as well as, her thimble. I
never thought about how amazing her art truly was.
From a pile of rags she would make the most beautiful
quilt's. I sleep under one of her quilts to this very day.
Copyright © Michael Jordan | Year Posted 2011
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
A-L Andresen :) - A true story -
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
Copyright © Sunshine Smile | Year Posted 2012
You can see him now, dirty as a horse
that slipped in the mud, planting petunias
with that infamous shamrock thumb
(Irish from his Pop Appendage from his Mum)
stopping every now - and again -
to breathe deep that fragrance
rich with pheromone nostalgia
just like Grammy Georgina used too do
the apple doesn't fall far from the tree
I can still see her now, in her glory days,
with lovely lemon locks soaking up the summer sun,
rooted in that old-fashioned train of mind:
You don't stop your work until it's done!
(but a walking contradiction, just like her grandson,
... rose to her nose like ruby rebellion)
the tree doesn't grow solely from the ground
Water's an important player too,
especially from grandma's showering can
(laughing tears the shade of crystalline blue)
Course you can't forget those lifetime lessons either,
from dear ole Georgie, speaking with a sunny kind of seriousness,
about the importance of patience,
the fruitfulness of labor,
plucking up the surviving winters' courageous cucumbers,
the ground isn't just a place for our feet
Cause with her and I, we incinerate the stereotype:
young blood reflecting on infinity,
old knees dancing like she's got chipper chipmunks
for toes giggles in the background like a photobomb
to the expected chapel silence
(it's not all peaches and cream though,
sometimes we get violent)
Orange slush, flying miles behind us,
at times getting grazed in the face
by nature's food fight
our feet between the squish squish of the crab apple
We were two peas, if you please, in a curious pod,
like a whimsical joke from a laughing God:
Me, the champion of her scallions,
the guardian of her garden,
leaving all sensibility befuddled
with an, "I beg your pardon?"
I wonder if she knew then the gravity of the situation,
watching mama scream bloody murder,
as I came into this world ...
... was she scratching her head, lips curled, in questioning amazement,
just like Newton must have been, when developing his theory?
What d'you suppose they both were thinking?
The apple doesn't fall far from the tree ...
Written March 27, 2016
For the Cliche Contest Hosted by Silent One
Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2016
There is a place called beautiful nestled deep in my mind's eye
Gingham curtains crisply pressed frame periwinkle summer sky
Brass kettle on the old gas stove reflects cast iron pans
And always at the kitchen sink, I see busy, wrinkled hands.
There is a place called beautiful, I'm transported with a whiff
Of coffee brewing, dark and strong, I long to take a sip.
And some perfume that only in this special spot is worn.
There is a place called beautiful I hear in perfect dreams
As Frankie croons and Louis wails all whilst the kettle steams
And as she works, she never tires as she hums and sings along
But the harmony of her lilting laugh is by far my favorite song.
There is a place called beautiful, it tastes like sweetest creams
Made in a bucket with a crank til her arms wore out, it seems
And topped with juicy berries that would burst upon each bite
And juices stained my mouth and clothes most every summer night.
There is a place called beautiful, I long to feel again
The naive sense that everywhere was as safe and free of sin
Where love and peace were daily served with a kiss upon the cheek
And grandma's kitchen always felt like you just found what you seek.
Copyright © Cindi Rockwell | Year Posted 2016
When the auctioneer first shows it,
I feel a sudden piercing shock.
My grandma's hand-sewn antique quilt
Is on the auction block.
It is the lovely basket pattern
And her stitches are so neat,
It must have taken tedious hours
For my grandma to complete.
I have taken such good care of it
Since my daddy left it to me,
And I wrapped up in it often
When the day was dark and gloomy.
Grandma sewed in her initials
And the year that she had made it.
One hundred-fifty-two years of wear and age
Couldn't help but start to fade it.
Grandma didn't know the fortune
That her hand-stitched quilt could bring,
When it was held up as an antique
In a future auction ring.
My heart is truly hurting
And I cannot stop the tears,
For giving up the treasure
I have loved for all these years.
Grandma made it for her hope chest,
While my grandpa was at war.
The year was Eighteen Sixty three.
My grandma was twenty-four.
But I know Grandma would agree with me,
That the life of our little Nell
Is worth more than a beloved quilt.
It is the right time to sell.
There is so much history going with it,
To this quilt's lucky buyer.
I hope he bids a hundred thousand.
Or if we're lucky, even higher.
For Auctioneer contest
100,000 dollars bid
Copyright © Joyce Johnson | Year Posted 2016
Terror seizes you, and it isn't kind.
You try to go somewhere peaceful in your mind.
But the pain rips you right back to here and now.
Not wanting to give him the satisfaction of even saying "ow."
You try to be strong, but he tears from you, a scream.
Oh God, please let this be a terrible, terrible dream.
I thought he was supposed to be a friend of mine?
As the tears grow down my face like vine.
He tells me I wanted it, even though I screamed no.
He says my attitude and outfit told him so.
In the same breath, he threatens me never to tell.
If they ask why the tears, you better say you fell.
As I got out of the car he pulled me to him and hugged me tight.
He kissed my forehead and said Don't worry you'll be all right.
Just remember, if you open your mouth, no one will believe a dirty whore.
Now go inside before I take you for another ride and give you some more.
Into the house and straight into the shower.
I was in there for what felt like hours and hours.
My grandmother knew right from the start.
Please don't tell, it would break Daddy's heart.
Please, Grandma he's not worth Daddy going to jail.
For my sake and his, you can never, ever tell.
She kept her promise and never uttered a word.
At night, she told me, my cries she heard.
For six weeks I kept my secret and told not another soul.
For six weeks I sunk deeper and deeper into a hole.
Not until I heard that he raped a fourteen year old girl.
Knowing I could have prevented it, shattered my world.
I finally told my horror story to the cops and to my Dad.
I don't think I'd ever seen him so violently mad.
Mike was arrested, but in jail he would not stay.
He lived around the corner and we had to move away.
He got probation, but not for me, his word against mine.
I was sixteen, of legal age to consent, so for me he'd get no time.
His punishment, probation for only a couple of years.
Me and his other victim were left with our fears.
Would he find us and take revenge for what he said was a lie?
Would my father hunt him down, and go to prison for a rapist to die?
He got away, pretty much scot-free for his deplorable crime.
His victims were the ones who were serving the time.
This IS a true story, my story, but not my story alone. After 8 years and raping several
other women Mike was sentenced to 35 years in prison. As he pleaded his innocence, we were
all in some way vindicated. He never did a day for brutally raping me, NOT ONE DAMN DAY.
But he's doing plenty now. I hope he gets ALL that he deserves.
Copyright © Aleera De La Keur | Year Posted 2009
I see her pretty little face
With a sweet smile as bright as gold.
I think about the days ahead.
It saddens me, I'm growing old.
I love that precious little girl
With all that dwells inside of me.
One day I know we'll have to part.
I beg of Time, so fleetingly,
To warp somehow and backward go,
So I could share more of her life.
She says "Grammy, never leave me".
That I must die fills her with strife.
She says"I want to go with you".
I tell her of the joys instead,
How one day she'll meet a man,
He'll love her so, and they will wed.
But Grammy's love is all she knows,
So I will leave her parts of me,
In photographs and work I do,
In love notes from my poetry.
Happiness of Life Contest
Sponsor Nayda Ivette Negron
Copyright © Connie Marcum Wong | Year Posted 2016
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
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 "
Copyright © Wilma Neels | Year Posted 2015
PART One,,,, as she saw it.
The mountains and the meadows were always so beautiful this time of year. It seemed as if a fresh new world always came to life. The high cliffs turned sharply downward. As I sat listening to the ocean tides smashing against the walls of the mountain below. There was a mild breeze blowing from the south. The grass in the flower covered meadows moved with the breeze. The sun shined so brightly I thought it would melt me at times.
As I stood up from the log where I was sitting by the emerald forest, the breeze pressed my dress against me. It formed to the soft round curves of my breast, down through the curves of my waist pushing against my yielding hips. As I blinked from the sun, I saw him there in the distance. I had thought I was alone. But there he was, starring straight at me. What would I do and where could I turn? I knew what kinds of thoughts men had, my mother told me all about them. I saw that he was beginning to move my way!
I saw him there as he saw me. I was paralyzed, not knowing what direction to move. Though as I watched him from afar, he did not seem dangerous as my mother always warned. Still, I could hear her words like a tape recorder in the back of my mind.
Should I dare take my eyes from his? I could see his eyes were dark, maybe brown, or even midnight blue. Whatever the color, I could tell they were smoldering with restrained passions. His hair was long to his shoulder blades. I knew that because it moved with the wind. He had broad shoulders with long legs. I knew I must not let him reach me. If his arms entangled me, surely I would never get loose. And, I'm not sure I would want too. Even though I heard the words of my mother, running in my head.
I could feel the tiny beads of sweat trickling down between my breasts. I was not sure I should take my eyes from him as I leaned down to pick up the fan that had slipped from my hand to my bare feet.
PART ONE,,,, As he saw it.
The winter snow had melted and yielded to the bright warming rays of the spring sun. The bears had come out of hibernation with their newborn looking for food. The mountains and the meadows were born again, new, fresh and alive with life. Everything was beautiful and as it should be. Birds singing, their mating songs blended with the crash of the surf against the steep cliffs of the mountain. Nature was at peace with itself, and I came here to share in this peace. To be alone with the earth, or so I thought.
I found a place to sit on the grass hidden among the flowers in the high meadows. So I could enjoy the gentle breeze blowing while watching the forest animals. The warm sun caressed my body and warmed me. It was a perfect day, yet something was missing. A day like this needed to be shared with someone, someone special. Stretching, I caught a slight movement out of the corner of my eye, just across the enchanted forest of beautiful women. It couldn't be possible as no one knew of this place. I had come here for years and had never seen another person before. Yet, there she was. Dressed in a dress the wind made love to, pressing it to her body. Clinging to the sensual curves of her breast, down to her firm waist and full inviting hips. I suddenly felt drawn to her and stood up. I knew she had seen me as she was starring back at me, as I stood staring back at her. She was a vision. And I was afraid she would vanish if I approached her. Yet, she seemed to be smiling, calling to me as I started walking towards her. I remember the stories my grandmother had told me of the enchantresses that lived in this forest, but I did not hesitate. I would give to her anything she wanted, anything she desired.
As I approached her I realized she was real. She seemed to be looking at me, daring me to come closer. All the stories of the enchantress my grandmother had told me flooded my mind with a warning. Yet, she was so beautiful, so inviting and I couldn't take my eyes from her. I was slowly losing control with each and every step that brought me closer to her. I knew I was lost as I felt the heat of my desire to be with her, starting to take control. It was a struggle not to run to this beautiful creature, with the golden hair, and angelic face. As I came closer I couldn't help but notice her sensual breasts rising and falling with each breath she took. She seemed to be smiling, challenging me with everything that made her a beautiful, desirable woman. A woman this sensual, this beautiful, this desirable was surely the enchantress, and I was hers. As a bee is drawn to the flower, I was being drawn to this women.
Suddenly she reached down to pick something up. It was just then I noticed she was barefoot. As she bent over to retrieve what she had dropped, the sun reflected off her spun gold hair. and radiated a golden brightness that was almost blinding. Her dress shifted allowing me to see that her body enhanced her dress, rather than the dress enhancing her body. She would look beautiful in anything she wore. The heat of my desire for her was beginning to consume me with its fire. I felt the beginnings of ~
Nov. 18, 1992,,,, a Short story I started to write, A friend asks if he could write from a male's point of view.
Copyright © Debbie Duncan | Year Posted 2013
“A Missive To My Granddaughters”
My dearest girls,
How can I begin to tell you
how much your smile warms my heart,
or the enrichment that penetrates my soul
when I feel your arms embrace me?
With you, I am a girl again reliving my own youth
When you share each new life experience with me.
Once again, my own fervor for life springs forth,
As I listen to the enthusiasm that emanates from your cheerful chatter.
Your joy rejuvenates me.
Your smile pierces my heart and finds its way
To a special place reserved only for you.
Your zest for life gives me hope again for a better world,
And I thrive on your courage that abounds with each day that passes.
That I have saved countless wishes for you alone -
A heart that is forgiving and true,
A mind that is forever open and exploring,
And the courage to face and overcome any obstacle.
I wish you a taste for beauty in whatever presents itself,
A flair of your own like no one else has ever experienced,
An infinite appreciation for all of Nature’s bounty,
And a magnanimous spirit for others less fortunate.
Please know that when I am gone,
I will be with you always in spirit.
Whether it is the sweetness of a Spring rain,
In the coo of a morning dove,
Or the scent of a summer rose,
You will be reminded,
And you will know
That I am there
Until we are together..…again.
Copyright © Jan Pearce | Year Posted 2016
Every day she comes to visit her,
lifts the spoon to her thin lips.
Quietly she sleeps, silently she weeps.
Life arrested in its waning grip.
Every day she comes with hope
that something in her changes.
Silently she weeps, quietly she sleeps
The memories time rearranges.
Every day she comes and wonders,
will she wake today and speak?
Quietly she sleeps, silently she weeps
An imprisoned mind in body weak.
Every day she comes and touches
the woman like no other.
Silently she weeps, quietly she sleeps.
Maternal daughter, loving mother.
Copyright © James Nichols | Year Posted 2013
My daughter`s budgie "Sissie" died a late night
The next morning I told her that "Sissie" was dead
With tears on her eyes and cheeks, she asked her mom
- Is "Sissie" in heaven with God and grandmother ?
- Yes, she is with God, grandmother and the angels
I answer her
Surprised at this answer, my daughter investigate
whether it was true
She walks into the room where the cage with
the budgie used to stand
After a short while, she runs back to mom....
- Mom, mom.... God has not only taken "Sissie"
- God has taken the cage too
This is a true story - - - from gold child`s mouth
dedicated to: Laila A.Mjelde
A-L Andresen :9
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
Copyright © Sunshine Smile | Year Posted 2012
Footsteps on stairs,
little feet pounding, running,
child faces peeking round the kitchen door,
expectancy alive, dancing in their eyes.
They know that love is always here
waiting just for them.
Each one thinks he is favorite;
in his or her own way, it is true.
Each is the most special
not for anything they say or do,
just for being.
We have our rituals -
breakfast French toast and bacon,
back rubs and funny faces,
ice cream after church,
backyard camp outs,
lots of love, laughter.
Happy takes me by surprise
each time I look
in my grandchild’s eyes.
© September 11, 2015
Faye Lanham Gibson
Copyright © Faye Gibson | Year Posted 2015
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
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
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
"More Spongebob, Mimi"--this I hear
a dozen times a day.
How much more can I stand to see?
No more of this, I pray!
I turn the TV off and run
to fetch his favorite toys.
When he says, "Spongebob's much more fun,"
I must seek other ploys.
"A Krabby Patty's what I'd like,"
he says of noontime's meal.
The common lunch I fix the tyke,
he eyes with little zeal.
The Krusty Krab invades my sleep,
and Squidward haunts my dreams.
Those creatures from the ocean deep
won't leave me be, it seems.
Can cartoon sponges start a trend
of death by kiddie show?
If SpongeBob's laugh can cause the end,
I'll be the first to go.
rhyme scheme abab
July 26, 2016
Copyright © Janice Canerdy | Year Posted 2015
Now that am older
I seek more answers
In the same manner I did
Those days gone, of fetching firewood to cook a cherished meal
I seek more answers
Not in the manner I did
Fetching sticks in the forest to be used by teachers for spanking and whipping
Oh how I dreaded those days, those chilling days of punishments for poor grades, tardiness and noise making
And there my hate for math began....fearing it even to this day
that math teacher that came drunk to class and we mostly got beatings for nothing
I seek answers to understand our family dynamics
Interesting, odd, sad, puzzling, beautiful, worrying, entertaining,
Is some of the descriptions
The reason we are the way we are
The beings we become in unexpected fate
I've heard your many stories of "emergency" during the colonial rule
I've seen your youthful strength that grows more beautiful with aging days
You always say "it's the Lord"
I remember how when we were little you always got us to wash our feet before getting on your bed
How you then proceeded to pray for your ten children, your many grand children and your ever increasing great grandchildren
Telling God each of their names
My sisters and I always thought you said some of the longest prayers
But now that am older I know why
The number of family members I have to pray for increases with new age
Like the last video i took of you singing and dancing with some of your great grandchildren,
The melody of my life becomes more fruitful with each new beat
Cucu, maitu (kikuyu words for grandmother)
Copyright © njeri hunjeri | Year Posted 2015
I used to look at your wrinkly hands
And see the veins follow routes like a map
Your fingers shook like a spayed chihuahua on the piano keys
Demonstrating the chord in which I was supposed to play after you
I was thinking instead about the stool we were sharing
How old and fragile the wooden piece was
The green-blue floral padding faded and worn
The chipped, wobbly legs
That creaky sound when you repositioned...
And I was praying it wouldn't collapse under our bodies
Your voice was gentle and calm
Softly pushing me back to my practice
and my fingers played that bright G Chord
“Very good,” You praised with a smile
Your voice so small and lightly faded
But still loving and pleasant
You explained to me arpeggios and broken chords
And I was glad it was you explaining it
I remember yelling at my dad
And throwing a big tantrum over playing “Allouette”
His straight harsh voice cut my fingers off the keys
As he ordered me to pay attention
Watching his hairy fingers demonstrate the left hand
And then the right
Pressing loudly and ramming the song into my every being
And I remembered
I was never concerned about making him angry
I would laugh if he made a mistake in teaching
Or if he stumbled on his words - which was frustratingly rare
I would scream if he corrected me
And yet I was determined for his praise
That he never gave
Your son loved music like you
And he wanted me to love it just like him
In an annoyed kind of way, I obliged
But I would make him suffer for forcing it on me
Even if I couldn't deny it was something I would always love
We never have our piano lessons anymore, Grandma
But I will never forget how you taught me
That stool remains in the room
It hasn't been sat on for days
And it took far more than mere days
To receive from your son…true praise
But that’s okay
I will pray it collapses under his body
Copyright © Laura Breidenthal | Year Posted 2014
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
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
Poet Sponsor: Harry Horsman
Copyright © Galeo DS | Year Posted 2012