I will never give up
Waste not a moment
There are things
That only I will tell them
I cannot stand by
Satisfied, though frightened
By the “comfort” of old age
I will teach them
The game has rules
Be it Candy Land
Or Monopoly
I shall sing
Old songs
Loudly
Cagily teach them
To chant
In a controlled
Joyousness
I shall thank them
For allowing me
To grow old
Without growing up
There once was a girl full of perk,
Whose dad thought her poem some quirk,
But she said with a grin,
“An essay on bin,
With school snacks – that’s real work, not just work!”
I plead guilty
Of saying,
My grandchild is
The most beautiful
The most wonderful
The most intelligent,
It shows, it is so evident,
Absolutely so loving,
Character and nature so giving,
Makes friends instantly
And acts independently,
And so much fun,
Takes my hand
To help build sandcastles
In the sea sand,
Likes to share,
Tells you if she feels you are wrong,
That is not fair,
And how old is this little wonder,
Who is not even afraid
Of an intense storm
With lightning and thunder,
Two years and 8 months,
Who converses so sensibly,
And comprehensibly,
I am not exaggerating,
Such a wise little mind
Who is also so truly kind,
Who tells me I am not pronouncing
“Absolutely,” Correctly
It is ab-so lut-ely yiayia, she says,
And I beam at you with pride
You are so little, yet mature
Everyday we love you more and more,
And one day when our time is up,
I hope no time too soon,
When you look up and
See a full bright moon,
And lots of glittering stars,
It’s Yiayia and pappou ,
Sending you hugs
And love galore.
YIAYIA AND PAPPOU ARE THE GREEK WORDS FOR – GRANNY AND GRANDPA
As we await our first great-granddaughter…
speaking now as a great-grandmother and great-granddad
we are grateful to see opening up
another section of our heart…
we never knew we had.
a small champaka sprout
lost to the receding flood
my grand daughter's face.
She’s young
Outshines the sun
More beautiful than anyone
She speaks her mind
Never on time
Somehow she likes my rhymes
She’s so damn smart
Owns this old heart
And struggles with where to start
She works real hard
Keeps up her guard
Cause she’s wounded with scars
She’s not gonna quit
Won’t never submit
Cause my granddaughter is totally legit
I felt joy when I read my granddaughter’s tribute to me
She was nine, and had no idea I would ever see it
Her mother, my daughter, gave it to me.
She had named me A.K.G. – awesome kid grandma
This page is uplifting, and wonderful
It makes me feel excited and happy every time I read it
She probably has no idea how it made me feel
I think it might time to let her know
It is framed, on my bedroom wall.
Where I can see it if I need to be reminded.
That I am the A.K.G. – awesome kid grandma.
It is the best tribute I have ever had, and maybe ever will have.
It brings me great joy.
The grandkids are heading to sleepaway camp,
Their clothing all labeled and packed,
Plus all of the extras they may or not need -
Way too much, as a matter of fact.
They bring pillows and blankets and flashlights and fans
And shin guards and sandals and cleats
And towels and bug spray and sunscreen and stamps
And shampoo, toothbrush, toothpaste and sheets.
They need rain gear and sleeping bags, books and canteens,
A laundry bag, backpack and socks,
Plus sweatshirts and jackets and underwear (lots!)
And their sneakers and rain boots and Crocs.
Of course there are bathing suits, t-shirts and shorts
And sweatpants and PJ’s and fleece,
But there are no iPads or Switches or phones
So some wonders, I guess, never cease.
The days spent at camp will fly quickly until
All that stuff gets repacked to go home,
With some missing or ruined or filthy, but that
Is a topic for some future poem.
Emma, Empress of Unicorn Empire,
esprit de corps of elementary school,
expeditious at exaggerating expression,
eagerly extending empathy of enormous embrace,
endless enthusiasm, exuberant existence.
Deacon, Duke of derring-do,
diligently, doggedly daily to delightful displays
of dauntless daredevil, destruction,
determined gamer, droll demeanor,
dearly dedicated to devouring desserts,
Dad's double, diplomat of Dreamland.
My grandmother's hands
knew things mine have forgotten,
how to make bread rise,
how to hem a dress
so it would last.
She saved everything:
buttons in mason jars,
stories in the space
between stirring and serving,
love in the way she said
my name.
This is what we lose
when we move too fast,
the slow art of remembering,
the patient work
of passing things down.
Her kitchen was a kind of church
where recipes were prayers,
and every meal
a small act of keeping
the world together.
Now, I try to learn
what she never had to teach:
how to make something
with my hands,
how to turn memory
into bread,
into words,
into something
that will feed
the ones who come after.
Each story I tell my daughter
is a vote against forgetting,
a way of saying:
this mattered,
we mattered,
you matter too.
I'm a baby.
I move constantly. Amazingly constantly.
And I flutter hard. Amazingly hard.
Why?
Because I'm rehearsing.
I'm rehearsing moving like I mean it.
I'm rehearsing being strong like oak trees.
I'm rehearsing dancing like butterflies.
I'm rehearsing for rolling.
I'm rehearsing for sitting.
I'm rehearsing for crawling like little explorers.
I'm rehearsing for walking like big kids.
My arms pump like tiny engines.
My legs kick like happy swimmers.
My brain lights up like Diwali morning.
Why?
Because I'm rehearsing.
I'm rehearsing coordination like orchestra music.
I'm rehearsing balance like tightrope walkers.
I'm rehearsing grace like flowing water.
I shake like maracas.
I wiggle like puppies.
I flutter like spring leaves.
Amazingly joyful.
Amazingly determined.
Amazingly ready.
Why?
Because I'm rehearsing for the moment
when I get to stand up
and dance through the world.
A Daughters Gift
In life’s grand play, a gift came not just once,
But twice, in forms of joy and tiny feet.
Two stars, my granddaughters, my heart’s response,
A blessing, twice over, and oh so sweet.
From you, my child, they came, a mirrored pair,
Reflecting back our past, our love, our ties.
In their bright eyes, I see your youthful flair,
And in their laughter, our family's spirit flies.
These little ones, with hands so small yet strong,
Hold our tomorrow in their gentle grasp.
In them, our stories, our dreams, prolong,
A future bright, in their tiny hands clasped.
A daughter’s gift, in double measure true,
Two granddaughters, life’s love forever anew.
i miss the way she looked at me
i miss the way she held my hand
i miss the softness of her cheek
i miss the games and girlish laughter
i miss the passion in her day
i miss the time she'd spend with me
i miss the years cruelly stripped away
i miss most the things she had to teach me
but since she's been gone i recognize
she's been the angel watching over me
AP: 3rd place 2025
My sweetest granddaughter Dear, My Dear!
I love you most my child : Am I clear !
You have won my whole heart since a kid.
gradually turning smart indeed.
Indeed you are God’s wonderful gift,
Kid no more now ten, charming polite.
Clear clean generous heart, my best bliss.
Dear, you are too far, I am to miss !
But to meet on Skype at week end.
I heard your exciting news today
A brand new baby on the way
Congratulations to you and your man
I’m so delighted to be a great gran
Your mum is happy, she waited a while
And ecstatic dad has a permanent smile
But remember my dear this is not a toy
It’s real live baby, girl or boy.
Have you thought of a name for this bundle of joy ?
Specific Types of Granddaughter Poems
Definition | What is Granddaughter in Poetry?