Long Grandfather Poems
Long Grandfather Poems. Below are the most popular long Grandfather by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Grandfather poems by poem length and keyword.
Dirt road lined with walls of stone,
run right up to the small home,
rust red siding coming in view,
in my head it’s still cedar, blue.
Sugar maples line a big field,
in march syrup we will steal,
vast open space on a hill,
where once cows did eat their fill.
Ancient giants in the trees,
some with knots, sign of disease,
one split trunk, a lightning strike,
still alive, since before Ike.
Waving grass across the slope,
sometimes deer, but mostly no,
groudhogs search, wanting to eat,
hayed yearly, sold off for feed.
On the house, a massive deck,
a new one, the last one wrecked,
view to the north, in good sun,
sees distant Mount Washington.
Inside is the fireplace,
built way back in olden days,
massive field-stones found nearby,
shunt the black smoke to the sky.
A big table grandpa built,
difty years, we use it still,
kitchen that is way too small,
oven dominates it all.
All built back in the sixties,
grandpa sick of the city,
back when the land was still cheap,
when the tourists weren’t so deep.
Though I guess I’m one of them,
and so will be my children,
when I’m gone, their kids will roam
our ancestral vacation home.
My poor old grandpa, he’s my hero
Respect from grandma? Nigh on zero
She nags him rotten all the time
I’ll illustrate that point… in rhyme
***
‘I’ll save you from ghosties,’ my grandpa once said
And grandma said, ‘Don’t put that stuff in his head.’
It’s spooky that ghosts are of people now dead
That night there were breathing sounds under my bed
That guttural breathing was making me scared
I should have looked but I just never dared
Grandpa said, ‘Glare back if ghosts ever stared.’
And gran said, ‘You wouldn’t say that if you cared.’
But what should I do when they’re under my bed
I kept thinking what would my grandpa have said
But grandma would say, ‘I should not be misled,’
and, ‘Grandpa should find a new subject instead.’
There’s breathing beneath me and I wipe a tear
Surely no ghosts could be so very near
But my grandpa managed to lessen my fear
His voice whispered, ‘Don’t tell your grandma I’m here.’
As I sit upon these old porch steps, that I have always known
A weathered stoop, with gray floorboards, that shake with every wind
These creaks and groans, the flaws and chips, ... familiar to my hand
I have come to some conclusion,,,
I've come to understand,
how well I know each board, each slat, the shape, the size,
the warps, the cracks, ...each rusty nail, ....
but not the facts of you.
Oh yes, ... I've seen a glimpse or two,
in photographs. I have a few
I see a robust man, in yellowed hues, of vintage stock...
By a house, a barn, where land is strewn with stones to move.
You stand behind a horse and plow, in coveralls,... a mustache. too.
I do recall, so vaguely gray, as gray as the paint beneath my hand...
a jolly man, a wrinkled face,
with a smile, a laugh, a loving way
A dream I have, or is it real?
Is that me when I was two,... sitting here, beside you then?
Or is it just my wish to know... more than just a trace of you?
I never knew the man you were, your hopes your dreams...
the thousand schemes that brought you to these rocky slopes
so far from where your hopes began
Where the steep cliffs rose and seas were blue.
Today, beyond these furrowed rows,...
tall grasses grow in amber waves
The eyes will wander, and shadows grow
I ponder how it came to be....
that I am me,....
who came from you;
a man I never knew.
_____________________________________________________________
(To watch the youtube video recitation:)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hF4GCLqf9_o
Oh my Grandpa dear-he had just one big beer. He thought he could see, his eyes were fuzzy and not clear. So on the sofa he did lay, as he slept away the day.
Oh my Grandpa dear-snoring so loud, everyone thought you were sleeping on a cloud. You stopped your snoring as you rolled over and headed due south, A fly does not enter a closed mouth.
8/9/2019
Some fellers like to sit around and sip bourbon on the rocks.
I prefer to sit around admiring my collection of old clocks.
At last count I reckon they number about seventy-five or so.
Much to the chagrin of my spouse, the number continues to grow!
I just can't pass up a bargain at the local antique store.
I suppose I'm like that old horse heading for the barn door.
When I spot a lonely beauty displayed there by its self,
I feel sorry for it and take it home to display on a shelf!
My den looks like a museum with clocks of every pedigree.
There are wall, mantel and cuckoo clocks staring back at me!
Even a grandfather clock stands against the far wall,
Made of solid oak and rising nearly seven feet tall!
Nigh on forty years ago my interest in antique clocks began.
Some are from from Germany, England and a few from Japan.
Do they all chime and clang at once you may rightly ask?
No - to keep them all wound would be an onerous task!
The chimes, bongs and cuckoos the old clocks emit,
Would surely drive one insane, I would readily admit!
'Twould be lonely around here, though, sans those friendly faces,
And their graceful, sweeping hands and ornate wooden cases!
Entry for Julie Leigh Rodeheaver's "Hobbies" Contest
(21 February 2019)
Harper Lukowski paced down the sidewalk,
the day was done, he was on his way home.
His fried Jaquan, twenty years his junior,
chattered with him as the two did go.
They both worked at a nearby factory
manufacturing high quality knives,
the best in the land, if you ask Harper,
as a craftsman he did his work with pride.
Things were going very good that fall day,
management had just hired on twenty more,
a president who had kept to his word,
Harper had never seen that before
As he came up to his small, suburban home
he spotted his son kicking back on a chair,
asked,”So how did the job search go today?”
Said his son,”There is no need to despair.
“I’m having trouble finding work I like,
I want to enjoy it when I make my pay.
Rather than rush, I signed up for welfare,
and I just got my first check in today.”
Harper went quiet at the young man’s words,
and said,”Have you gone and lost your mind?
If you even think of cashing that check
then you are no longer a son of mine.”
His son Ted then froze, there on that spot,
a surprised look etched deeply on his face,
Harper continued,”Never did I think
you would fall so easily into disgrace.
“You think that check can do no real harm,
but I have seen the effects of the dole,
your own grandfather lived off of hand-outs,
he died a drunk, only forty years old.
“And every day I walk to my job
I see the wreckage of people on the street,
mad at the world, helpless and cruel,
devoid of the slightest dignity.
“Is that how you wish to spend you hole life,
as a dog on the government’s chain?
Voting for whoever throws you more cash,
regardless of the evils in their brains?
“Have the schools polluted your mind so much
that you can’t see any job has honor?
Will you live like a leach, draining the cash
that’s been built by the hard work of others?
“If you value your freedom and your manhood
you’ll destroy that small and unearned check,
and if you don’t then you can kiss goodbye
all your dignity and self-respect.”
Ted’s mouth hung open at this diatribe,
even Jaquan looked utterly stunned.
Ted crumpled the check and slinked away,
Jaquan said,”You were real hard on your son.”
CONCLUDES IN PART II...
The world is a small rural village.
Each nation is a household
Sometimes one runs out of salt
but never worries for a neighbour will offer
expecting nothing in return.
Communal hands
Clear each other's farms.
When pests strike one, the rest respond
because no rain ever falls on just one roof.
Children are raised by the village
whether born of wealth or want.
Every father is a father to many
every mother is a mother to all.
Lessons are not chalked on blackboards
but told around fires, where wisdom glows with every flame.
The world is a small village
my grandfather once said
where kindness is currency
and no one eats alone.
I am reliving June 29th, 2014, a warm, happy day.
Four of my grandchildren are here, spending a week.
They are each in a garbage can filled with water shooting each other
with water pistols, and especially loving that they can shoot me.
I am grandma, and this is Cousin’s Camp. Rules are out the window.
We have been outside, running around screaming and laughing.
Cali and Molly are ten and almost nine. Jack and Tony are both seven.
We run in to grab up multi colored popsicles; the dog pounces ahead.
Grandpa hides in office; a dark room, secure with his ten video screens.
Everyone is happy, enthusiastic about the possibilities of this week.
My grandchildren decide to make a list of all the things they want to do.
Boys are shouting ideas, but the more assertive girls have their own.
Girls are the writers, so their ideas are going on first. I relish this week.
Knowing that I will have few days this joyful and merry again in my life.
I am grateful, angel of death, you allowed me to relive this day.
Thank you! I loved seeing the last thing on their list too.
Spray Grandma with the hose.
Why weep so easily in old age?
Vulnerable to memory that thins
No substance,
A sparse waterfall
like draped silk on bony shoulders
We need reminding about what to celebrate
what is safe
what has vanished
Thoughts, unmoored by time, meander like smoke from a mosquito coil
toxic trailings
wafting scent
death waiting
Mind puzzles that have no solution
No connective tissue to certainty
Constrained by feeling soiled in one's own skin
Dulled by the familiarity of waste
Long lasting space debris between two ears of grey reasoning,
unable to tell what's coming next
The beautiful agony of labored movement
that can't stop fighting the current
To savour bits of light, forever closing in
This feeling of entering history in the narrow arc of night
Mortality swirls on the horizon,
changes all calculations,
As tears of glass
bead on white plaster skin.
Poem composed: March 2020
(revised: March 27, 2021)
Twas the night before Christmas and all thru the house
My grandpa's fast at work carving a wooden mouse
In the spirit of St. Nick he bloomed from his heart
And sang holiday cheers and Noel's from the start
I tiptoed down the steps to his basement and all
Following a trail of music, and grandpa having a ball
I hid from his sight and watched tears run down his eyes
As he carved each toy mouse to its original size
For most of the year, grandpa's an unhappy sport
But save for one night of the year his ship came to port
And there he was a pantomime Silent Night in cadence
As he stood over his lath and drill, his eyes adance
Five gift boxes wrapped in gold glitter waited to be filled
Each gifted to his grandkids, who surely will be thrilled
First, he added a coat of black lacquer, and I did blink
As he dressed each eye, nose, and ear in shades of pink
I may have been five years old on this Christmas Eve past
But watching grandpa come alive, a memory that will last
To have seen his silent night awaken was such a lift
To see him smile with tears in his eyes was a true gift
11/27/22
The Night Before 3 Poetry Contest
Sponsor-Joseph May
1st