Long Family tree Poems
Long Family tree Poems. Below are the most popular long Family tree by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Family tree poems by poem length and keyword.
McGee's young grandson walked out to the porch
Where McGee was rocking away
"Grandpa, where did mankind come from ?''
So, McGee thought of what he should say
"A long time ago, it was Adam and Eve
They got married, and made love in the woods
Then she got pregnant, and her babies had babies
And this fill the earth as it should"
"That's just find," the young boy replied
But Grandma said something depicting
that we all evolved from the Monkeys and Apes
So why are your stories conflicting"
McGee scratched his head, then softly He said
"Your Grandma's still right, don't you see
She was merely referring to all of those folks
that came from Her own family tree"
A creature pinned under glass,
stitched into silence with silver thread.
A doll with eyes too wide,
stuffed with fear and feathers,
posed just right for praise that felt like poison,
frozen in a smile you carved into me
with a voice too loud to be questioned.
I was your cracked reflection,
the hollow echo of your bitterness
shamed into stillness,
taught that love meant obedience,
meant shrinking beneath your thunder
and calling the storm “discipline.”
But I came undone.
Clawed out of the display case
with fingernails grown jagged in the dark,
tore each stitch loose with my teeth,
peeled your name from my skin
like paint from rotting walls.
I wear my trauma like antlers
blood-slick, brutal,
curved with history and hunger.
Each tine a chapter
of things you swore I imagined:
the slamming doors,
the names hissed like hexes,
the way your love
felt more like war.
I carry the ghosts of the men before you
stone-fisted and salt-tongued
who taught their daughters
to fear their own fire,
to swallow their voices
like rusted nails.
But I grew fangs
and fed on the rot.
I named the monster,
even when it shared my blood.
Even when it wore your face
and said it was protecting me.
Now I am not still.
I am storm and skin and sacred howl.
I am not nice. I am not quiet.
I am not your legacy.
I am the daughter
of a woman who grew gardens
in broken places,
who showed me music in the wind
and beauty in old bones.
I am the one who crawled
out of a family tree
and set the roots ablaze
just enough
to see what could bloom
in the soot.
Graduation Of Two
It is a day to remember,
my son and grandson together,
Graduating with an A-plus,
so tell me what is all the fuss,
Cannot recall a dull moment,
from yearly gifts now bestowment,
Both of you summa cum laude,
G.P.A. four-point-oh lordy,
So come now, uncle and nephew,
we leased a hall for this venue,
Family and friends all gather,
Entertainment, food, gifts, matter,
Your dad and granddad are happy,
nana's countenance is pretty,
Interest, game technology,
twas both in your biology,
Twas in the cards with words on walls,
colleges with their protocols,
Tis best for both to get a house,
here are the keys as I espouse,
Since your parents bought your new cars,
I resolved to buy a just cause,
So here is a toast to you boys,
ere me young men, to books from toys,
Both part of our family tree,
today, a bit proudly it be.
2020 February 17
Rhyme Scheme:
Couplet
it's so important to encourage our youth and let them know that we care
for it's a terrible thing to waste a child especially one that you reared
our children are our future, they're our living legacy
so be careful how you raise them up from their infancy
a child is a terrible thing to waste and this God understands
for the children are the continuous message for the foundation of modern man
so bring them before the Lord and tell them Jesus Christ is their Savior
love them, praise them and be circumspect especially with your own behavior
let them know that Jesus died so that they could have strength, faith and hope
let them know that His sacrifice will give them the means to cope
yet there are parents who raise their children by only providing material things
but the material things of this world will not cover everything
the only thing that a child can hold on to is love, hope and faith
so introduce them to the Lord Jesus Christ before it's too late
in the Bible some leaders in the church
of the children they seemed to discourage
but to be a true disciple of Christ
the Holy Spirit in them you should encourage
are you one who pushes a child towards greatness and their true destiny?
or are you a hindrance in a child's life denying them God's ministry?
the church should be a place of comfort, of prayer and a haven of peace
so don't push them out into the world where they'll become products of the street
where dreams are shattered, hope is crushed and belief is a liability
for it's a terrible thing to waste a child, the core of mankind's continuity
so call to remembrance the roots of faith that have always upheld your family tree
pass the baton of hope and belief onto your future progeny
don't disqualify them from the race in this journey we call life
equip them with the necessary tools
they'll need to become servants of the Lord Christ
open the doors to their hearts and put a spark in them
teach them the ways of Christ for it will sustain them in the end
it's a terrible thing to waste a child so give them love, support and concern
raise them up in the ways of God and to the streets they will never turn
presently, the patch of an eye, one seeing,
the other believing; and the bite of a bunny
above a lip - such a dangerous deliverance.
presently, the Winter witch, pricks fingers,
which crack and throb, like patches of ice.
cream assuages the pain of little things.
presently, the stomach inhales, bales on
sweets and salts, assaults rabbit food.
thoughts do not linger; the word of God,
fingered, pondered, treasured, measured.
presently, a limp, no leap, pillow-high, ice
is nigh; yet the soul roams to and fro through
corridors; shadows lick the empty rooms.
presently, a bucket of rain, like a trick,
as soon as door is opened, it will splash
with sandwiches of turkey and ham.
presently, lingers the taste of cream
and coffee; the pause of four blue boxes -
of outhouse cubicles; morning silence.
presently, ticked off book after book - the fast,
the vainglorious, the betas, the unexpected bio.
presently, weighing the importance of time spent -
we must waste some of it, be amused, but up
our sleeves, we must have goals. They hurt
the mind, the chest - the needful nettling.
The dig for dinosaur bones; shedding of fat;
the rising, punching, and springing back
of an offering and sacrifice, willing and able.
presently, a silent war, yet it roars and stares,
cruelly divides, hinders closeness, with
rave reviews. it must refuse to speak, to avoid
a six feet deep spike; a cross, not garlic, keeps
at bay, the monsters of principality.
presently, at peace, harbor no ill will,
keep a lock on lips, needful, not subtle.
knees at ninety degrees. love cannot
ignore the issues, but solves the problems
with open and closed eyes; casts cares
at the Lord’s feet, for His know how.
presently, expounding, perspiring chills, reciting
and writing poetry. family tree will be fine.
We sat in the fallout
of last year’s gift exchange—
smashed angel centerpiece
taped back together
as good as a rogue bomb
if someone mentioned it.
Our voices dragged
like anchors through an ocean—
low, cold, summoning something
older than Kris Kringle.
I strained to recall
a time when it wasn’t like this.
The kitchen table—
a battleship, whipped tension
and potatoes. Dad’s knife slipped
once, then twice. Mammaw clutched
her rosary, counting sins like beads
of gravy on the drop-cloth. The whiskey
isn’t worth your soul, she whispered.
Our air was burned sugar—
a water pie, depression-era relic
left too long in the oven.
As they say, it’s the ingredients you have
that bake the cake.
Mom whispered, Let’s just get through it.
The corners of her mouth disappeared—
I knew better.
When my sister reached for a biscuit,
I grabbed her wrist—too hard.
Mine, I hissed. The room turned
quiet, the kind of silence snow wears
before an avalanche.
By sunset,
half of us were crying—
over the ruined pie,
or the family tree
we couldn’t stop cutting down.
When I reimagine it—
and I always do—
I don’t erase or the snowfall
or the tension.
Instead, I break the bread
without a flinch,
leave my sister’s wrist unmarked.
Dad’s carving hand steadies,
and in my version,
we get grandma drunk—
the old broad needed to lighten up.
The angel still shatters—
but this time we laugh,
our elbows knocking it over
reaching for seconds.
In the end, we huddle closer,
ash still falling, we celebrate
cold on the other side of the door.
Our hands stay sticky, glue healing
the angel’s cracked wings,
sugar crystallizing our fingerprints—
we press lightly, only to test for doneness,
we are patient,
we watch as snow smothers our wreckage—
call it DNA, an elegy.
From Poland hailed your Uncle Max, who in matters of manners was a bit lax,
While from France came Aunt Belle, whom I thought was really quite swell.
Next up from Russia was Cousin Boris, whom I always confused with Nephew
Morris;
And then from Germany came Aunt Gitel, whose fingers fairly flew o'er
her fiddle.
After that from Lita came Uncle Beryl, whose fistic prowess put enemies
in peril.
Of course, from Ukraine came Cousin Emma, whose soup was the crème de
la crema.
It's our duty to recall Uncle Saul, though no one knew where he came from
at all
And finally, from Prussia, poor Aunt Masha, who subsisted for years on
potatoes and kasha.
What's this? You say you don't know any of these relatives at all?
Neither their names nor those of their children can you recall?
Then furrow your brow and bestir your brain; just don't be appalled:
Uncle Max may have been from Krakow, but his skeleton was prematurely
interred by the Nazis at the death-camp of Dachau.
Cousin Emma was from a wealthy family in Vizhnitz, though her fiery
cremation was reserved for the ovens of Auschwitz.
And pretty Gitel, who grew up in the small village of Dulmen, was gunned
down in the caverns of Bergen-Belsen...
So much for our family tree.
Had grandpa not fled to America by sea,
One of those dead branches above
Would surely have been me.
HOLOCAUST MEMORIAL DAY -- 73RD ANNIVERSARY -- APRIL 12, 2018
NEVER FORGET!
In a place that still gives me the willies
were some wild men, and they were all “Billies.”
Since they lived on a hill
that was nearby a rill,
they were known simply as the “Hill” Billies.
The Hill Billies’ sons had the aim
of sparing their fathers from shame.
When their fathers were bad,
each would stand by his dad,
so “By” Billy was each son’s name.
Now THEIR sons, who moved to a plain
away from the hill, were insane.
Called “Blow” Billies, they
did nothing all day
except get doped up on cocaine!
May 3, 2018 for Caren Krutsinger's Hillbillies, Bybillies and Blowbillies contest
If anything, please know I tried
I tripped, slipped and fell behind
I came up short, with empty hands
With two left feet, I tried to dance
I never fit inside the lines
The artist had a structured mind
Inside my head, the music played
The world around, I would evade
I imagined that, it went away
To my own beat, my body swayed
But there you stood, a tiny spot
An itty bitty, perfect dot
You longed for that which can't be bought
But mama failed, she forgot
Though it is a selfish thought
Please don't hate me for what I'm not
Each day, I plan
To begin again
A fresh new hand
I dare not bend
A blank page with no scribbles
And hand full of sharpened pencils
As soon as the led on the first pencil snaps
My fingers slip and lose grasp
A perfect package of expectations
Opened a moment too soon
I lose count of my loose ends
My day, now out of tune
I've come to terms with lack of luck
Deciding things just won't look up
I try so hard but for what
Now stubborn and bruised my ego is stuck
I imagine myself going with the flow
Despite my duck's unsightly row
And the fickle nature of that we know
No worries, my darling, mom will show
But now, my love, I finally see
That what I'm striving so hard to be
Is not your mother. It isn't me
It might be the lady down the street
With red lipstick and polished feet
A fictional character, possibly
Someone better, arguably
But perhaps I fulfill a different need
So I'll pass self love down the family tree
She was born a girl but inner heart she knows she is a boy
and thus spends much of her young life life straddling the edge of joy.
And it’s no different for him…in the same way his life unfurls…
as he was born a boy but in his heart he knows he is a girl.
I see them holding hands or kissing…I see them time and time again
women who love other women…men who love other men
He likes dressing as a woman…even though he is a man…
When I first saw these people I used to stop and stare…
I tried my best to understand…
How is this even possible? How did this come to be?
and what life must be like…for those so obviously different than me.
But the more I shared my world with them and they share their world with me…
I realized we are all just branches on the same human family tree
And though I’ll never truly understand what being on their branch is like…
I have come to understand despite our differences,…we are so much more alike.
I reached a place a beautiful place…where I no longer need to stare
as I concentrate on the things we have in common…the things that we all share.
And as my view of the world and the people in it it keeps evolving…keeps expanding….
I realized all that anybody wants in life…is acceptance, love…and understanding…
Which makes me wonder….
What if the things that make us different…
instead of being feared, condemned or banned…
What if the things that make us different…
are just different things to understand?