Black Grandmother Poems | Examples
These Black Grandmother poems are examples of Grandmother poems about Black. These are the best examples of Grandmother Black poems written by international poets.
~that she saw her mother as a child lying strewn on the kitchen floor black and blue~
~that the taste does not matter only that it should be sufficient~
that what you don't know won’t hurt you
~that she’d let those who don’t know her home feel the fight stuffed in her school blouse~
~that she has fraternal half-siblings with unknown identities~
that what you don’t know won’t hurt you
~that her mother had a secret child she gave to the church~
~that I am of Welsh descent~
that what you don’t know won’t hurt you
~that she wishes to see her only son more often than the present~
~that she dreams of her youth as she had to grow up too young~
that what you don’t know won’t hurt you
~that I should only save and not indulge in frivolities~
~that she has never left her hometown’s four walls~
that what you don’t know won’t hurt you
~that in her eyes, no one will ever be good enough for her son~
~that he, like her, never got to be what he was meant to be~
Why Little Red Riding Hood
Seems you're steppin' out
Dodgin' bullets and pullin' clout
And what happened to the Grandma stop
Did she want you out?
The whole forest heard her shout
So come on, what was that all about?
Ohh my hooded and cloaked babydoll
You are a vision of vixen
An icon of dazzling brilliance, beautiful and thrilling
Your hot breath on my neck is chilling
Blackness, Darkness in a jar
Your Ying with my Yang
Playin' chicken in different cars
Together we could go so far
So why then are we slammin' shots in this dive bar?
Little Red Ridin' Hood, with thigh-high red leather boots
Long red gloves, blood-red lips, and eyes of black
A David Bowie moment or a panic attack
Take it all back
Cuz diz fairy tale been cracked
And a poetic daybreak is a matter of fact
So you go girl
Little Red Ridin' Hood hit that trail, I got yer back
And the brothers Grimm - well they'll be checkin' in
Dealin' Sin and with the help of all things heinous and supernatural
Let the games begin
White horse, black heart, Little Red Ridin' Hood
Take your start
The Photograph
A crease, a blemish
runs across it all
Black and White
No colour then
A Mother embraces her child
The word mom scratched in with love
MOM!
Who’s mom, not mine
A grandmother to be, and a mother to be
My mom, my grandmother
Brothers and Sisters
Thank you both
For the life you gave us
Each breath we take
First came from you
We thank you mom
We thank you gran, for the life you gave
You may be gone
But the love you gave lives on
In my kitchen's grasp, where spices hop free,
Whispers of our memories, in each recipe.
Khichdi's humble grace, a bow to our roots,
In grains and lentils, tradition assent.
Herbal notes linger, a fragrant ballet, a scenic design.
As generations gather, in love's display.
Grandma's hands, a harmony of care,
Amma's gentle touch, flavors rare.
Papadums bloat, tales of old flames,
In every fold, history takes flight.
Black tea's warmth, with Tulsi's caress,
A sip of time, warm embrace.
Amma's pickle, a tangy delight,
Mingling with Khichdi, in consonance light.
Handpicked mangoes, memories unfold,
A dab of pickle, a story retold.
The Great Indian Kitchen's embrace, ceaseless love
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
There were crows at the funeral,
cawing to their hearts' lament,
it rained at the burial,
a hollow shell of blank torment,
faces weeping tears of black,
it doesn't seem it's gonna last,
these memories, they fade so fast,
a smudge upon a crystal past
The sun lights ablaze the insides of the church
And colours the aisle for a girl to waltz down
Clutching a carved dress sashaying over stone
She reaches the end and is dropped to the ground
Her girl hands to her a tarnished black bouquet
Of damp chrysanthemums and roughly cut hay
And weeps on her dress, hoping that she will say
“I’m here now my sweet, so put those tears away”
She sits there in silence as the pastor stands
And pulled to the side are her daughter’s pale hands
He blesses the dress, and each last tear is shed
And prayers reach the ears of each bowed down head
Each eye minds her shell when at last she stands up
And pictures her dancing, might that be enough!
But strapped in her dress she is forced to behave
Tucked under the wood as she walks to her grave
You drink coffee black
Hang your clothes in sunlight
Blue eyed Grandma
There was an old lady who wore an old shawl,
knitted it herself with wool bought at the mall.
Now old and ragged, Granddaughter Pennie thought
my friends and I could knit a new one, and we ought!
Two friends agreed, but it will be a big job.
We need two more, maybe we should “lob”
Put on the bulletin board, no one signed.
Then, on a church pew, accidently left behind.
Pastor Jim told Pennie's mom: I know two who knit;
one is black, one Chinese; won't be a problem, will it?
Pennie's mom, Mary, said: my mom's thinking is old hat.
Maybe we won't tell her til it's knitted, how's that?
So, the four girls got together and knitted away,
forming friendships that last even to this day.
Grandma knitted with them, said they were all cute.
Thinking can change for we're all from one root!
"Buff-a-flies!" My tiny granddaughter points
to the black and yellow wings settling around us.
"Butter-flies," I agree with caveat.
She scowls and refuses to speak again
until after dinner time.
Did I learn my lesson? Mostly...
That was Christmas! Great Great Grandma told them.
The children were stunned at the old photo.
This did not look like any Christmas they had ever had.
Why is the picture all gray?
Their great-great-grandmother explained black and white.
She pointed out her gifts. She had been six. Her sister was four.
Only two gifts each?
The children were stunned.
Not understanding.
Songs
(to my life and grandma)
No easy to think
when we are afraid
when we look around
and there is not a place
where we can feel
where we can play
when all the faces
are under the rain...
The floor was cold
the windows small
the sound of the roof
was strong in storms
I could never sleep
at night on my own
the sweat on my feet
the demons in war...
The light went off
then all was black
I could smell her smell
in the middle of the dark
the songs they played
while laying there flat
I still hear them in my head
even when half of my days... have past.
Jessica
When my granddaughter Molly was nine, we knew she was an artist.
I bought her paints, canvases, inks, watercolors, pencils and erasers.
I used to sit and watch her, and talk to her while she was creating.
Grandma, why don’t you paint?
One terrific reason. I did not want to waste a canvas.
They cost a lot of money if you are not buying them in bulk.
Was I worth an eight dollar risk? What if I ruined a canvas?
That was eight bucks down the drain.
She kept pestering me.
I only draw cartoons, I told her.
You could paint one! She said.
This was the beginning of the end of life as I had known it.
I had so much joy in my heart as I selected paint colors for that cartoon.
I painted a second cartoon, a tenth cartoon, a six hundredth cartoon.
My house is full of black lights that feature my hundreds of paintings.
This obsession has lasted eight years thanks to a girl named Molly.
Photos of Grandmother
David J Walker
Grandmother has
become a picture
That so few of us know
Things committed to memory
Fall short
A black & white print
Is creased across
the face of the fading image
And even a perfect recall
Of the last summers eve
Shelling peas one evening
On the screened-in porch
Can’t replace all of what we thought
We knew of her
Mosquitoes were singing and
Fireflies were dancing
Kamikaze moths were the true believers
Flying into the 40-watt light
What hymn was Grandmother humming
But the picture hadn’t the slightest idea
And the answer was lost
At the cost of
Distance and time
It seems Grandmother
was a young girl once with
Her own unspoken dreams
Or so it says on the back
Of a photo found in the bottom
Of a box where she is held
captive and expressionless
at age 15
In the picture she seemed to
be waiting to
grow old
Tattered from custom
slightly stained
her old apron lay in a corner
idle
Each stain
gains life
used as a mitten
for oven roasts
apple tarts
carried outside on the back-porch
to cool down
a handkerchief
to wipe off grubby faces
a solace for spoilt tears
She bundled in it
loads of black figs
juicy peaches
ripe tomatoes
legumes from the garden
fresh eggs and
sometimes
baby chicks cheeping
to our delight
It was a purse
a clothes-pegs basket
A glove around her hands
to warm them in winter
she slipped it on
each morning to protect
her clothes
and shy little me
from strangers
she only took it off
when she
slept….