Daughter Poems | Examples of Daughter Poetry

I walk with a weight that I never quite chose, But somehow it fits, like the thorn on a rose. The pain and the beauty, they bloom just the same— Two sides of a story that whisper my name. Born of a mother whose roots ran so deep, But stolen at birth in a silence that still weeps. They called it...

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down on the floor hands and feet would lift me ~ i was a plane blew up balloons she made me animals ~ i was dazzled taught me stitches loved skilled embroidery ~ i was craft sown drew paper dolls sketched with clothes to cut out ~ i was prized fun read tales aloud fueled my fantasies ~ i was book hooked spent time with me shared skills and joys with...

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ECHOES PIERCE THE SILENCE* ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I open the sewing basket, letting my eyes and hands run over the tools she had used—the scissors, the darning egg, the pinking shears, the pins, the tattered, tomato-shaped pincushion, and spools of thread. I gaze at the metal spool-shaped bobbins remembering how, as a small child, I flushed them down...

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I am my father’s daughter — quiet when it matters, loud when it doesn’t, loyal like a bruise that never fades. He was a man of few words and too many beers, a homebody with calloused hands who built his love from paychecks, plywood, and patched fences. He didn’t say much, but he never let us go without. We all worked with him — held tools before...

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The world too much occupied his mind left no room for things mundane busy with intrigues of state and such from deep feelings he resolutely abstained ...

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How she loved diamonds, her birthstone. Literally diamonds were her best friends. She worked very hard and each piece of jewelry she bought made her happy. Cluster of diamonds or solitaires, emeralds and sapphires with diamonds set in precious metals of gold or...

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This scene occurred just days before she died. Somehow I made it through before I cried. While pale and weak, eyes closed, in bed she lay, I thought of all the things I longed to say. I whispered “Beautiful" and kissed each hand. Confused, Mom said, "What? I don’t understand.” “Your HANDS,” I said. She answered, “They’re worn out and wrinkled. That’s...

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Games at the baby shower ...

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When the sun bloomed And the bougainvillea blossomed And her cheeks unfurled Into a long smile At sunset, I had her in my arms; I knew her. When the whales sprayed silhouettes, And the fishermen made their bets; Porpoise stitched the sea Into a sunset dress For her to wear at the dance That night after we argued About strangers. (And please don’t talk to them And don’t drink...

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Writt4n By: D. Collins 7/29/25 Should I step up like somebody down with the game. Or, do what I do, that was highly ingrained. Some people beg to differ and change what they see. I ain't the one, they ain't in people like me. BeachBumPimpDaddyDarrell is now my new name. Just trying to go out by the water from...

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At three years old, she slides down the playground chute again and again— screaming joy like a law of nature, not knowing her thrill relies on two surfaces refusing to agree. I don't tell her that without friction she'd fall through her chair, pass through the carpet, drop through the crust, until even the Earth's center ran out of grip. I just watch her walk— tiny soles pressing the ground, each...

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I feel it all.. the highs, the lows.. The silent grief that never shows. I smile like I’ve not seen the fire.. But flames still flicker beneath the wire. I play it cool, a practiced game.. While inside burns a nameless flame. A storm of thoughts, both sharp and deep.. That churns beneath what looks like sleep. I’ve danced through hell at a...

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You’re gentle, judgemental, A freak in sheep’s disguise Yet in some ways you’re burdened by self sacrifice, You’re obsessive, compulsive, Afraid to let me go You’re afraid of what’s left of you, If you have not my hand to hold You know I love you, But it’s time to move on Take a fall, and crash out, if I’m wrong Be scared, I’ll hold you, If...

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Poem submitted to "Those We Love Poetry Contest," Mystic Rose, sponsor ECHOES I open the sewing basket, letting my eyes and hands run over the tools she had used—the scissors, the darning egg, the pinking shears, the pins, the tattered, tomato-shaped pincushion, and spools of thread. I gaze at the metal spool-shaped bobbins remembering how, as...

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Demilade Ayomiposi Malia Joseph by Adejola Joseph an award winning poet. Author of Cracks On The Walls . Demilade Spring out of ocean Water in the desert My sweetest princess You are the epitome of beauty Virtuous than all the glamours of rubies My daughter My pearl I love you so much I love you....

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