Grandmother Family Poems | Examples
These Grandmother Family poems are examples of Family poems about Grandmother. These are the best examples of Family Grandmother poems written by international poets.
The MARY most close to me
Was my maternal grandmother.
This MARY'S love for me was unrivaled.
And to me, she compares to no other.
During my early teenage years,
I did garden work for a lady named MARY.
Under her employ, I learned about flowers.
This MARY taught me to value hard work.
Another MARY gave birth to Jesus.
One MARY loved to sit at Jesus' feet.
Yet another MARY saw Jesus first
After he arosed from the grave.
Grandma's kitchen was always inviting :
tea, a smile, the smell of something baking.
The sun was an ever welcome guest,
time spent there was without a doubt the best.
Even for her favourite li'l Tasmanian devil
Grandma knew how to make the mundane special.
AP: Honorable Mention 2026
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The mirror lies—or maybe doesn't.
These hands, pale rivers
of raised veins, thin as tracing paper,
are hers.
I press my thumb to the back of my wrist,
watch the blood retreat,
then rush back~
a pulse we share
across decades,
like sunlight through leaves
on the same stubborn oak.
She is here, in the way my knees
crackle in winter,
in the age spots that bloom
where hers once did.
I am becoming
a map she drew
without knowing.
As I am watering your withering white roses,
I wish I had separate simple tall glass vases
To share each and every white rose with family
Who loved you as their mother and our granny.
But really symbolically this glass vase is rather
As transparent as we are when we're together,
So I never want to see us separate nor shatter.
Times we shared are the stems of each flower.
Just as we come and go thru life and death,
I'll water these roses until their final "breath."
Though your suffering lasted until the winter,
News of your final night pierced like a splinter.
I'll water these roses and your cactus plant.
I'll think of you as I sing to songs like a chant.
I still love you, I wish I could know if you know
I have a lot of self-growth I am going to show.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The kitchen hums~
flour dust in the air
like December’s first snow.
Her knuckles,
cracked as the recipe card’s edges,
work butter into sugar,
a sacrament of crumbling.
Cinnamon whispers the old language~
the one she brought over in a tin,
tucked
between hymn books and grief.
The oven sighs.
The dough remembers.
When it emerges
golden, crackled~
we eat it warm,
our fingers sticky
with the past.
grandma, the family storyteller
in old age would forget
so her stories changed with the retelling
but an essence of truth remained
her voice echoes in my heart
was each story semantic to grandma
new in ambiguity to her
with random memories merging
I am the storyteller now
looking into the calm reflective waters of time
seeking recollected memories that echo
my words specular with reflected words
I am that girl at the kitchen table
listening to her musical voice impacting me
I wonder did she realize her life ending
did she want to give me her gift
I often escape into her fugue of melodic telling
her unexpected memory with all the beautiful failures
that perhaps only I who wished to be like her
who knew her stories told over years would grasp
Memories lost within a frozen mist
And dangling in the static atmosphere
Of muddled recollection of things dear
Haunt the backwoods of the years she has missed.
Through foggy glances, blurred thoughts that persist
In the dim haze, shapes of the past, appear;
These flittering figures, some far, some near,
Skitter through her mind, meek and shadow-kissed.
But soon they drift to a fathomless past,
A time she can no longer touch, just hear.
Rocking mechanically, her face austere,
She searches, brow stuck in a furrowed twist.
As I watch her eyes wander vacant space,
I wonder, “Will she still recall my face?”
balsam scented room
candelabra glowing red ~
festive spectacle
red bubble tree lights
dance amongst silver tinsel~
an old-fashioned flare
laughter and chatter
warm the home with joyful cheer~
holiday party
sweet savory scents
inviting holiday feast~
edible presents
diamond ring surprise
an enchanting engagement~
holiday magic
newborn in velvet
cradled by his grandmother~
celebrated life
I read her old letters from time to time
Hoping one day she may still write
Pretending she's still just miles away
I'll send my letters out anyway
As I read the words I still hear her voice
In these passing moments my eyes get moist
All these times she talks about I remember well
Will you be gone very long? Why must you go at all?
I keep my thoughts, my memories
And share them with my family
All of us at your house on Christmas Eve
Say Mr. Postman do you have a letter in there for me?
I still feel her presence by the Christmas Tree
the child held onto her grandmother
knowing she was in safe hands
her mother smiled, glad they had this time
she understood the shortness of life better than most
she loves you, she told her mother
and I love her, her mother replied.
She handed the baby to her daughter.
They had to be going, but they would be back tomorrow
she was glad she lived here now,
having moved closer because of this child
knowing that a working mother with a child needed her own mother
three generations of women, depending on each other
comforting each other, leaning on each other
one of the strongest relationships in an uncertain world
Where have all the moments gone,
As fresh as a summer breeze!
That kissed newborn, fresh, emerald
leavees on Chicago’s trees.
Whatever became of my expansive,
Blond desk, that smelled of fresh wood?
Or, my white and black saddle shoes?
I’d wear them, ah, if only I could!
What about all my fun and convivial high
School fun, and class of friends?
I imagine them all, now grandmas on
Family-blessed, weekends!
What great satisfaction, to know that this,
My beautiful, bright, and so blessed progeny,
Will carry me with then in spirit and
Humble works, rest with them, so poetically!
4/26/2024
Out from the 'Chop Shop,' breaking laws,
"Speed bumps, Hoods!" Scold Grand Mamas,
Found with the blacksmith made lots of noise,
Served an acquittal now kissing boys,
First comes the stocking of little Nell
Wait cause Grand Mas legs still swell,
Next comes the stocking of little Will
Oh, it's filled to its brim with swill
Oh, oh, no! "I" - "da" - "ho?"
Oh, oh, no! "O" - "hi" - "o?"
Get up it's nonstop, quick, quick, quick
Down to the car and without this chick!
They call her 'bubbe' now
her face a bit puffy
sheitel no longer stylish
yet still works Friday's kitchen like a pro
not a moment to ponder where the years go
They call her 'bubbe' now
her family by her side
them, you'll never divide
for they guard 'their bubbe'
with a love so fierce
no outsider can ever pierce
_______________________________________
Notes:
1. A 'sheitel' is a wig, worn 'back then' by every
married Jewish women.
2. 'Friday's kitchen' was and is extra-hectic,
because the Sabbath is coming Friday evening.
I'm in line at a store, and I'm bored,
Typing on my phone, restless and alone.
I’ve got light-blue nails, like the sky or your eyes.
I like them, it’s my favorite color - I don’t know why.
I’m buying flavors for my coffee, nutmeg and pumpkin spice.
I like having coffee in the morning, when it’s cold, they’ll taste nice.
There’s a really old lady at the check-out, she’s moving very slowly.
She’s paying with cash and coin, from a pouch, counting carefully, holey-moley.
She’s frail and reminds me of my Grandmère, with her white hair,
her sturdy shoes, I want to pick her up and hug her - but laissez-faire.
When my turn came, I waved my Apple watch over the pay terminal - it’s fast and contactless - like the whole world. Does anyone hug old ladies anymore?
My ears, inclined to Jesus Christ.
My sins on his cross, sacrificed.
I believe in eternal life.
Authentic smile and full of life!
Friends depend on my faithfulness.
They can be themselves, not suppress
true thoughts, for I render no strife.
Authentic smile and full of life!
I love to explore…it is zeal…
Along with the deep joy I feel
As grandmother, mother and wife.
Authentic smile and full of life!