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.
The teenage years and the golden years are
the most difficult to endure. Both are fraught
with emotions...of facing life...of facing death.
May 9, 2017
~Poem of the Day May 11, 2017~
~Summer’s Eve ~
I am a woman!
I am proud-
I am everything you want.
Plus more
The adoring wife,
A beautiful mother,
A grandmother a granddaughter
A daughter, a sister,
A lover, the aunt.
Your enemy, your friend.
I am a working lady.
A widow left behind.
I AM!
The Spawn of Adam's rib-
I AM!
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.
I AM!
The sun and the moon in your eyes.
A twister during dark skies.
I AM!
The Daughter of Eve-
And, here is the only feeling I want to endorse.
Summer's Eve.
*****
In honor and appreciation to all the women of the world.
Happy Mother’s day!
By;PD
Through the years they worked their spells
From drawers and cupboards, taking things
That through them, thus, were given wings
And changed to sweetness meant for kings
With warm and wafting scrumptious smells
My Nana's hands ...
Countless times we'd strolled to town
To shop for what she'd need that eve
(First taking stock before we'd leave)
A shopping list tucked up her sleeve
My wee lad's fingers, safe and sound
In Nana's hands ...
The way back home was twice as long
Our arms filled plump with paper sacks
The makings and some special snacks
Oh, how the groceries bent our backs
Yet even then, I held on tight ...
To Nana's hands ...
Still it was always worth the chores
To watch her mix and bake and cook
While dancing to-and-from her nook
And glancing, sometimes, in a book
Oh, how I marveled and adored ...
My Nana's hands ...
But sometimes they were hard to hold
Curled with arthritis, wracked with pain
She oft' times had to stretch and strain
Though NEVER did she ONCE complain
Through rheumatism's stranglehold ...
On Nana's hands ...
See ...
Those bent old hands in disrepair
Worked twice as hard so we could eat
Thus each night's meal and every treat
Was that much more divine and sweet
All from the love and tender care ...
Of Nana's hands ...
And still, my fingers long to share ...
My Nana's
Gentle ...
Hands.
- by Gregory R Barden
~ 2nd Place ~ in the "Cornucopia Cooking" Poetry Contest, Chantelle Anne Cooke, Judge & Sponsor.
It was like the sun did not rise
and mourning birds sang
no morning melody.
The heavens were so grey,
pouring like Noah's floods,
preparing me for the storm,
which drowned my heart.
I felt like a butterfly helpless against the wind.
I had no time to build an ark
nor to sail towards those uneven paths,
which would allow me to hear your last breath.
Maybe hold your hand and hear you
call my name one last time.
I will never forget that moment of silence,
when the world seemed to pause
and I feel, I'm still standing still,
feeling numb, unable to express myself,
so I supress myself.
Waiting for the birds to sing.
To trigger suppressed sentiments,
but there is no metaphor for this void I feel,
like the emptiness of the room,
where you would say;
"my prince has come home"
You would always ask if I was hungry,
still force me to eat when I was not.
Together we would pick
sweet grapes from those vines,
which ran high up against
your sage veranda.
You would always bring out
the pot I cracked,
when I was six,
saying with a nostalgic look;
"Hands of my first grandson broke this."
How you would treasure such memories.
The season of death has returned,
to steal my jewel away from me.
I look in dismay at discoloured fallen leaves,
scattered like my emotions.
Will those fruits ever taste the same,
now that your precious hands cannot pick them?
Who will treasure what I broke?
You used to always call grandpa's name,
now I know you are together again.
Mama still calls for you,
I say to myself, she has gone, mum,
as has her laughter and her smile.
There will be no more hugs,
no one to call nanna now.
The sky still remains dark,
but the floods seem to be easing
and
I know one day the sun will return,
as will the birds,
singing in your remembrance.
Before I die, I want my grandchildren to know these things.
Believe in yourself and be your own best friend.
No one else can keep your secrets like you can.
And if you do not believe in yourself, it will be difficult for others to.
I want my grandchildren to know this:
When you get old your hearing and eyesight may fly away.
Like birds on an almost weather day, never to return.
So do whatever you want now while you are fresh and young.
I want to will my five hundred paintings to my grandchildren.
For I feel my children will pluck them off my walls and burn them.
They know how swiftly I paint, and do not have a love for hippies.
Grands appreciate my neon colors, unicorns, dragons and faeries.
I want to apologize to my children for the mess I am leaving.
I did not bother to clean anything,
It will be a bonding experience for you three girls
A week or two of cousins getting together, which will amuse me.
I want to assure you that I will be in a catbird seat, watching.
I will listen to what you are saying about me, and I will laugh with you.
I never took myself too seriously, and it will be a great time for me.
Because life beyond this world is the real living. Earth life is confining.
Letting you in on a secret. I am an astral traveler in my slumber.
I am not in my body; my spirit is outside, travelling at great speeds.
I do not believe in death, because I am also an empath
I am not “dead” – I am actually more alive than ever before.
With wings of golden starlight your spirits flare
Each woman burst forth a steadfast astral pyre
Your valiant souls are / defying / confining
the tethered snare
Like distant suns that are piercing the boundless mire
With hearts unyielding you are shatter iron grates
Your unshackled wings where shadows once confined
And in your touch,
love's caresses, gentle graces
A serenade of voices, together
softly intertwined.
Through time's grand halls your histories reside
Your footprints pressing...
on ever-shifting sands
With every single verse
a truth you cannot hide
For you mend the world with...
steady guiding hands
O gracious women, blessed with beauty /
fierce and bold.
In every realm
your being we cherish
and behold.
-----
“No matter how tired you are, no matter how physically exhausting this work may be, it's beautiful to bring a smile into someone's life, to care for someone in need. What greater joy can there be?” Mother Teresa
"I am no bird; and no net ensnares me: I am a free human being with an independent will." - Charlotte Brontë
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 in the air a trace of Tollhouse cookies baked this morn
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.
4/9/2019 / Poetry Marathon Final Placement / Sponsor: Mark Toney
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
Poetry/Sonnet/Always For Grandma
Copyright Protected, ID 16-765-513-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
For the contest, Famous Last Line
sponsor, Laura Loo
First Place
I take my hat off for the flag
I stand up straight; let others sag
I get all weepy for Old Glory
thinking of my family's story
They came from Russia with naught but hope
with just their wits to help them cope
No language skills or education either
Money or living quarters, they had neither
But they scraped and scrimped, and just kept going
Gramps peddled junk, grams did the sewing
And with the help of God, it all worked out
Hard work and faith -- their kids did sprout
My father an attorney, my uncle a physician
All due to gram and gramps' prescient intuition
To emigrate alone, part of no community
to an unknown land of opportunity
A little angel is born to us, a cute dainty darling.
Our first grandchild, the fruition of our dreams of a lifetime.
Sent down from heaven, a blessing we will ever cherish!
Finding a place to belong,
in childhood's lonely song,
up on grandma's swing,
I fly high and sing.
Sailing in the clouds of blue,
finding joy so true,
supported by a walnut tree,
I am finally free.
As my friendless soul escapes
by the tangerines and grapes,
I sail from earth to heaven,
a boy of only seven.
Birdy, please, a quill to pen,
for when I'm back on earth again.
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
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
The nursing home called me early in the morning to come
as snow clouds sailed across the sky
and my heart swelled with a sea of tears
to see you lay still like a statue
my beloved grandma turned to stone
and I, a puddle of weeping and lost in my grief
grandma, I am not being strong and wondering
would you still love me ?
. . . or tell me to stand up straight
I loved you so much and your sweet serenity
all those beautiful scars of your life
your delight in a cup of tea
and a good cookie
your gift of storytelling that you passed to me
I want to share everything at your funeral, but wonder if I do
would you still love me ?
. . . if I shared our private conversations
that we whispered in hushed voices since my childhood
and how when I was hurting you were my shelter
you were my placid lake where I felt safe
my tranquility- the reason my words flow like a rippling stream
well, I spoke in the church of you and me
my words stilled the crowd to tears, but I still wondered
would you still love me ?
. . . love me for sharing our relationship
our great respect, bond and deep love
I was quiet as they lowered your coffin into the ground
the cemetery was full of bird twitters
but seemed soundless and peaceful
I will not say goodbye grandma for one day
my time will cease and when that day comes, I wonder
would you still love me ?
___________________________
December 5, 2018
Poetry/Free Verse/Would You Still Love Me - Grandma
Copyright Protected, ID 18-1092-174-01
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Submitted to the contest, Would You Still Love Me ?
sponsor, Edward Ibeh
Second Place
Brody
I bought two new books for you today my sweet boy.
The Wizard of Oz and the Jungle book should bring joy.
I'm very proud of how wonderfully you read.
As an English scholar, I know you will succeed.
I see your picture in the morning when I rise
As I observe your dark hair and sparkling brown eyes
The thought and sight of you really makes me smile,
Although, when I saw you last, it's been quite a while.
I miss watching you laugh and play riding your bike.
I love photos sent of you and Dad on that hike.
You love to have fun in the sun I know, I know...
You race and ride that ATV just like a pro.
Your mommy sends me sweet pictures which makes my day
I would love to find a letter from you today.
You look so dashing in your boy scout livery
With badges bravely sought and won with chivalry.
Your Kung fu lessons have trained mind and body well
I'm proud of you my dear grandson and I can tell
The kind of compassionate soul you will one day be.
I pray to God you will be blessed eternally.
Sometimes tears fall because you live so far away
I long for your kisses and hugs most everyday.
Please don't ever forget how much your Gram loves you.
You have my heart, and with your smile I can't feel blue.
4-9-18
© Connie Marcum Wong
-Poem of the day April 11, 2018~
5th place in Emile Pinet's Non-Romantic Love Contest