Best Grandmothers Poems
Sometimes when
nightfalls of summer
feel so cold,
and everything seems dark,
I turn to the heat of
my grandmother’s soup.
Life can exist
within bone China
or simple ceramic textures,
savoring salt and spices,
but when it becomes
bland, we seek
sentimental essences
to ease our yearning.
When watercolor
sunsets break into
warm saffron hues,
I remember her soft
smile that
bestowed hope upon me,
resonating ancient
flavors seasoned
from perfectly peppered
zests of her soul.
Crumbs of
her cuisine seduce
a dull skyline
into gourmet
tamarind twilight,
as the warm touch
of her culinary run
through the hallways
of my childhood home,
like an aromatic
epitome of hand
cooked love,
she sprinkles
ingredients of faith,
marinated in minced
humor,
with lemongrass
and lentil lullabies,
in a heart-shaped
bowl of tom-yum
testimonies.
And now I sit here
reliving a distant
delicacy so close
to the taste buds
of my mind.
I will always crave
for the first course
of my grandmother’s
Friday feast,
served in a tray
of fragrant memoirs,
garnished in laughter,
cultivated with delight,
amidst the wrinkles
that reveal the recipe
to unravel euphoric
tales of her
unforgettable kitchen.
My Grandmothers Hands
Grandmother Pearl,
the Ozark mountain girl,
picking flowers and
singing down the valley,
in the sun and the rain.
Her hands, older than her age, they were,
already a woman’s touch.
You were such a little girl, when your hands
took on the cares of this world, the mountains
ringing with the silent sound of your toil.
The clap of prayerful thunder it was, hands that never stopped,
and never asked why, why me?
The rough hands,
full of so much tender love,
folded in devotion,
and then after, always in motion,
sweeping a wooden floor, or knocking at heaven’s door,
stretched out hands of service through all infinity,
beckons me onward to all eternity.
Some songs
Are of saddest times
The skies of darkest days
Some words
Bring such discontent
There are no gentle ways
To tell the tale
Without the tears
That tear the heart in two
But I will share
This saddest tale
Of hearts both black and true
There was a widow
With a son
He was a spunky lad
And when she found
Another man
The boy turned
Mean and sad.
The maid who cleaned the widow’s house
Saw the what was going on.
How each day the battle raged
As soon as she was gone.
The man took off
His silver belt
And like a man insane
He beat the boy, he cursed at him
And called him filthy names.
The mother’s love had maddened him
He hounded the poor child
Jealousy had filled his head
By hate his heart defiled.
He loved the widow, now his wife
Her son was in the way.
He sent the boy away to school
On that their wedding day.
The boy wrote home--
He hated school
They beat him there and worse
They starved the boy
To punish him
For writing silly verse.
The boy wrote home to plead his case
He promised to be good.
He begged to be at home again
He’d even chop the wood!
At the widow’s urging
The man re-read the letter
'He must come home'--his sweetheart cried--
'He's promised to be better.'
The man sent off the widow
Quick to get her son
She left him on the next train
Before the day’d begun.
The day was hot, the winds were bad
The clouds, they shouted rain
The neighbors said that angels wept
As they hailed the train
The man stopped by to get the mail
Without his widow’d wife
Another letter from the school
How tiresome was his life!
He put the letter in his bag
And headed his way home
When bedtime came he got it out
He liked to read alone.
'Your son is dead,' the letter said,
The hand was from a man
the school was starving naughty boys
the lawmen had a plan.
The school would close, the boys all leave
But one boy would remain.
The dead boy would be with his ma
When she returned by train.
The man who loved the widow
And took her for his wife
Hanged himself before the dawn
And took his own dear life.
The widow and her son
Returned through beating rains
She walked into that darkened house
And blew apart her brains.
Ever since I can remember we visit my grandmother´s house every Sunday. In the dinning room were we usually spend the while there, she has always had this big glass carved showcase lying against the wall. This big showcase of hers has all types of dolls you can imagine. Is a collection a hobby of her that since I can remember it grows bigger every time. From Matryoshka dolls until Mariachi dolls we can see up there in her collection. Dolls from many places around de world: France, Russia, China and Germany are some examples. My father tells me she collects this dolls since he was a kid, from house to house they have lived on she has taken this big showcase of hers. My grandmother is a collector, and yes she has probably more than 20 different nationality dolls, but this doesn’t mean she has been all around the world. People that know her and care for her always bring her a doll as present when they come back from a vacation. Sometimes I ask her things about the dolls, and every single time no matter her age she always remember the dolls that are the most special to her. Some are presents from other people, and others were bought by herself, but from this special dolls she can give all the exact information. Off course the majority of the dolls she doesn’t even remember from which place they come from or who gave them to her, but I see the smile on her face every time we talk about this showcase, and I feel happy myself only by thinking how an object that she has save for so many years have a great value to her. But most of all I feel happy that one of this special dolls is a present from me and every once in a while when she remembers she thanks me for this doll and tells me that is one of her favorites.
My Grandmother's House!
That country-styled house of yesteryear has gone so fast now a sweet memory of times gone away from me, You could smell the breeze pushing and blowing a fragrance in the air. This story is told where memory has been and will be again to unfold!
The lace curtains white and brown twirled with a sash
In the wooden country house of old oh and that wooden firewood stove. Yes! Still, remember the delicious smell flowing in the air
A burning memory of mine, so old! and rare!
Its a memory of a time gone by and the taste of
Grandmother's juicy Blueberry pie and her SweetP Potato pies
I was there! Waiting!!
Step by step in and out of the house pacing back and forth!
Walking by the wood stove waiting
As I wanted a taste of that blueberry pie! Smelling this tantalizing scent the potato pie glazed my eyes too and moist my tongue I had to wait so my mind was made up because the eyes knew and saw
which I would taste first but at that time I was looking and staring at the empty plate also the wind seems to blow this fragrance out the window a drift
down the road down the street across the path back inside again! However when I looked toward the barn, the cows mooed and the trees gave a breeze blowing sweetly it felt like the joy of pure delight and me, and my mouth held on tight to the scent felt like it had crossed the sea then back to me , it was there everywhere Just thinking as am walking down the street thinking about Oh yes my grandmother, the wood stove of old burned like no other high cooking fire in grandmother's house! I was there!
Excuse me Miz this is
McDonald, may I take your order Please? Yes! just
thinking!
Inspired by previous contest (women in my family)
Women in my family
Were unique in every way
Though miles and years apart
There’s very much to say
Women in my family
Have left a legacy
Filled with pain and strife
But, also, honesty
Women in my family
Weren’t perfectly petite
But have you met a nice girl
Who didn’t like to eat!?
Women in my family
Have gotten in to pickles
They’ve made a mess of things
At times they’ve been quite fickle
Women in my family
Have paved a way for me
If it weren’t for these ladies
Well.. I would never be
Women in my family
Kissed their young at night
Though trauma weighed them down
They shed relentless light
Women in my family
We’re never very close
They hid their scars
Wished on stars
And now, they all, are ghosts
eap-GRANDMOTHERS
A grandmother loves grandsons:
in the womb, at childbirth
and the times sad or with mirth
by the soul without girth
in the love, with no dearth
© Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
January 12, 2010
Inspired by Poetry Soup member contest: RHYME TIME
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
Unsung Laborers Day of Humanity!
Hail to the unsung laborers who labor every day for a year, and at least up to eighteen more years!
Hail to the unsung laborers who labor as they carry a child inside of their womb for a whole year!
Hail the unsung laborers who have to deal with weird food cravings, crazy mood swings, nausea, morning sickness, exhaustion, and so much more!
Hail to the unsung laborers who give birth to their child and/or children and almost die while giving birth!
Hail to the unsung laborers who every
day
night
hour
minute
love
nurture
care about and take care of
teach
challenge
encourage
support
discipline
protect
feed
water
shelter
instill in
pay for school and sometimes even college, and so much more for their child, and/or children!
Hail to the unsung laborers who give up all of their time and goals in order for their child and/or children to succeed, and even giving them all the attention that they need!
Hail to the unsung laborers who wash, dry, fold, and put up unlimited piles of laundry, clean up mud stained bathtubs, read mountains of books, accompained bathroom visits, endless readings of nursey rhymes, knock knock jokes, endlessly hearing why, and so much more!
Hail to the unsung laborers who are and were ancestral mothers, great great grand-mothers, great grand-mothers, grand-mothers, mothers, aunts, sisters, daughters, cousins, nieces, and wives, who do so much more than they ever get credit for!
The sweetest things I've ever known
Is both of my grandmothers' love
I'm still their baby though I'm grown
To hear their voice would be enough
To count the times I think of you
Would be seventy times seven
When it is my dream come true
I'm seeing you both in Heaven
acrostic, three quatrains
G - Great women of the Bible I will share,
R - Ruth and Rahab, two women who would wear
A - ancestry in King David’s lowly birth,
N - never daring to think they had much worth.
D - Dauntless Rahab gave spies a helping hand;
M - Modest Ruth was unaware of God’s plan.
O - Old Jericho fell, Rahab was kept safe;
T - Trusting Ruth left Moab on paths of faith.
H - Holy God blessed them both with his good grace.
E - Each of these trusting women could now trace
R - record of their worth in Messiah’s tree.
S – Surely, it’s faith that counts, not what we see.
8-13-18
Savannah Brown's contest: CONTEST NUMBER 1 - AN ACROSTIC INCORPORATING A QUATRAIN
Dear God
as i kneel hear and pray
help me lead them in a way
though there expectations may fall
let there hearts stand tall
for that is their connection
to go in the right direction
though the path may seem troubled
they will always find their way
Amen
I still see her in her white rocking chair.
Sharp hearing and her once, sharp vision going.
Rocking, dreaming of her grandchildren growing.
Their toys, left abandoned, at which with love, she stares.
Her heart broken from painful emptiness!
Those days of hugs and love, forever gone.
When, with those grandchildren, singing songs.
If only their pictures, brought back such happiness.
She knows full well these days are her very last.
She is a delicate shell, abandoned on life’s shore.
To her family, she’s a huge burden and more.
Midnight Angels carried her to where she would be
wanted, at long last!
1/8/2023
Raking back the leaves to dig
Roots that would soon become
Brilliant displays of vibrant hues
Creating music in the wind song
With flamboyant heads swaying
Dancing softly like generous hopes
Assorted dreams drifting gently
Picking cornfield beans, shades of
Olive mysteries, sent to bring richest
Wisdoms and warmth, miracles
Buried beneath the slow caress
Of a noon day sun who gives back
Flavor and fulfillment, faith in Him
Who holds the answers to a prayer
Blending flour, lard and milk together
Forming dough into portions that know
The scrumptious aroma of serenity
Soothing the senses with tender truths
Scraped from the bowl of inspiration
Thriving with the stir of desire, a fire
Passions aroused by the touch of thanks
Embracing the heart with assurance that
Feelings will survive the worst of life
Overcome the pain and chaos of disruptions
Flee anger, bitterness and resentment
To learn more about love and contentment
The precious joy that comes from knowing
A existence filled with love that is unconditional
Grandma’s legacy bequeathed me ambitions
Lessons in devotion, trust and commitment
Reminders that every dream is worthwhile
Each hope is a prayer that sings to heaven
With faith that real love leaves a footprint
Patterned after the finest treasures, inspiring
Visions brought about by God’s hand on me
GRANDMOTHER'S LOVE ,
IS FUN TO HAVE
GRANDMOTHER'S LOVE ,
IS SPENDING ALOT OF TIME
GRANDMOTHER'S LOVE ,
IS PRAYING TOGETHER
GRANDMOTHER'S LOVE ,
IS LEARNING TOGETHER
GRANDMOTHER'S LOVE ,
IS TEACHING THE YOUNG
GRANDMOTHER'S LOVE ,
IS THE SMALL MOMENTS
GRANDMOTHER'S LOVE ,
IS A GIFT
GRANDMOTHER'S LOVE ,
SPEACIAL TO HAVE
GRANDMOTHER'S LOVE ,
IS A LOVE YOU WILL ALWAYS HAVE
Paternal grandmother's headstone - Beth David, Elmont, Long Island
Shaindel (Sadie), variant of Shana Harris
died May 13th, 1959 exquisitely chiseled
alphanumeric characters legibly engraved
sepulchral casket entombing lovely bones
deoxyribonucleic acid repurposed into me
Matthew Scott Harris patronymic protector,
when I die taking family surname to netherland
who unwittingly named his youngest daughter
after his recently deceased father's mother.
Mortality encompasses subsequent cremation
never mind death of yours truly unbeknownst
mine soul will migrate towards deceased kith
kindred folks only known courtesy genealogy
descendents called Eastern Europe homeland
upon landing at Ellis Island émigrés hugged
immigration officials and illegibly scribbled
unpronounceable/ unreadable birth names
subsequently adopting common shorthand.
Chromosomes reconstituted genetic material
gifted from forebears ecstatic immigrants apt
to be regaled by relatives hustling newcomers
into fast paced frenzy, the latter gesticulating
at cityscape marveling over hubbub jabbering
babble synchronized in tandem with hawkers
and vendors selling, peddling comestibles,
gewgaws, papers, et cetera predating buyer
beware analogous to innocents abroad say
by George an American in Paris humming
Rhapsody in Blue.
Agog regarding novel sights never seen within
father/mother land, viz supposed New World
blitzkrieg eventually quieted, relegated, shelved...
analogous by Dickens perusing tchotchkes
commonly found within olde curiosity shop,
yet no matter acclimatization arose espying
eye opening merchandise, the dirt poor status
regarding bloodlines a couple generations ago
immediate deterrent experienced by Aaron
Harris (papa's father) as a boy, who provided
for his family, their hardscrabble existence
only somewhat alleviated thru hook and crook.
Please pardon poetic license usurped,
especially slight exaggeration of penury
promulgated concerning up by bootstraps
scenario evinced by paternal grandfather
after he attained and emerged out boyhood,
though destitution imprinted thru his infancy
until growing up hardened qua hard school
of knocks limiting him to eighth grade education.