Long Grandmother Poems
Long Grandmother Poems. Below are the most popular long Grandmother by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Grandmother poems by poem length and keyword.
She walks with grace and elegance,
Her every step a dance of joy,
A woman of strength and resilience,
Her spirit free, her heart pure as gold.
Her eyes are deep pools of mystery,
Reflecting the depths of her soul,
Her smile a ray of warm sunshine,
That lights up even the darkest of days.
Her voice is music to the ears,
Soft and soothing like a lullaby,
Yet powerful enough to move mountains,
And inspire the world to greatness.
She is a force to be reckoned with,
A warrior in her own right,
Her courage and determination,
A beacon of hope in times of strife.
For she is a woman, strong and true,
A symbol of love and hope,
A shining example of all that's good,
In a world that sometimes seems so dark.
So here's to the women of the world,
The mothers, sisters, daughters, and friends,
May we honor and cherish them always,
And stand beside them until the very end.
I'd like to thank my other grandmother
For being something like a mother.
I always admire her endearing love
For all we grandkids, whom are gifts from above.
I'd have so many more loving words to say,
If we did more than live our own lives every day.
But regardless how much time spent or not,
So thankful for those sympathetic ears I often sought.
I'd love to be there for her, like she's been for me,
Fortunately, however, life seems to leave her be.
I have always loved my other grandmother,
But all too often I was too shy to show her.
I'd like to thank my other grandmother
For never seeing me as too much of a bother.
I've nothing but the greatest gratitude,
For all the things she's done, despite my attitude.
It was in the beautifully majestic Florida Keys
Where I visited with my beloved grand-mother
She introduced me to the Frangipani with its luscious clusters
The fragrance was bewitchingly inebriating
Soon I couldn’t distinguish the petals from the butterflies
Twilight had gradually descended without a sound
Till the mockingbirds bellowed their glorious chants
Amidst the enchantment of an ancestral menagerie
Like royalty, we slowly sipped from delicate pellucid crystal glasses
Vermilion and gold had infused the ripples of the ocean before us
AP: Honorable Mention 2021
Submitted for contest TEN WORDS AND TEN LINES CHALLENGE sponsored by SILENT ONE - January 6, 2018 - RANKED 2ND
Old guava tree
Still bearing fruits;
Sixty years old now
~~~~~~~~~
Old aunt's house
Porch with fruit trees;
Custard apple delights
~~~~~~~~~
Grandmother calls
Two pungent durians;
Holiday treat
~~~~~~~~~
Waiting time here
School bus arrives;
Goodbye waves
~~~~~~~~~
Memorial tablets
Family altar offerings;
Ancestors watching
~~~~~~~~~
Prayers sung
On festival days;
Harmony abides
~~~~~~~~~
Mind your words
Power resides within;
Seed new moments
~~~~~~~~~
Words surge
Magic floods;
Cosmic activity
~~~~~~~~~
Change anchors
Nothing to lose;
All things come and go
~~~~~~~~~
Death flavours life
Life yields to death;
Nothing stays the same
~~~~~~~~~
All that is true
Seen only with clear heart;
Listen to your soul
~~~~~~~~~
Poise beyond voice
Heart knows fond choice;
Learn to rejoice
~~~~~~~~~
Let blame be brief
Reject all grief;
Now simply breathe
~~~~~~~~~
Words echo
Stones in egg shell;
Noisy crackle
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
20 August 2014
Singapore
Let me tell you something they don't teach you in fairy tales,
Let me deliver a message you can’t find in the mail,
something your grandmother should have whispered in your ear
before you went looking for love in all the wrong faces, spaces, empty-places.
Love does not hurt.
you've heard the songs that make suffering sound romantic,
seen the movies where passion means pain,
been told that jealousy is just love wearing different clothes.
But listen…
Love does not break your ribs to make room for itself.
Love does not leave fingerprints on your throat
or make you apologize for breathing too loudly.
Love does not ask you to shrink
Love does not control or tell you how to think
until you fit inside someone else's idea of beautiful.
The grandmother speaks to her granddaughter:
When I was a girl the best advice from a loving parent concerning,
A suitable mate for their daughter,
Was 'find someone your own age',
Don't fall for someone twenty years your senior,
Now, well, if he is in good health, young at heart with a good sense of humor,
I say don't write him off,
When there are so many young ones who will never reach fifty.
And then there are the other ones who are just plain full of it,
With their only interest in life being, themselves.,
And the attitude that the world owes them a living because they are entitled.
If you love him bring him to your granny,
I have plenty of wood that needs chopping,
And fences to mend,
There is a dance on Saturday too,
And if he can make your Granny laugh,
He just might be good enough for you.
Why do we call the good old days,
good?
Grandma was always talking,
talking about the days that had passed.
I wonder if they were really that good,
or does our mind play a trick on us?
Grandma loved sitting on her porch,
looking out over her land in her rocking chair.
Now the old rustic white fence,
is falling down from the last storm.
Her once beautiful flowers are all dead,
dead just like her.
"By the squeaky old gate that tomorrow will find,"
sits an old tan and orange alley cat.
Oh how she loved to feed her stray cats,
then play with their furry kittens.
Will the squeaky old gate find a new tomorrow,
or be torn down and rebuilt with cement?
she is scrubbing the very skin off my back
I think to myself as I brace my hands
against the sides of the pot belly tub
my mother always had such strong firm hands
I steady myself from the force of her strokes
she is in a hurry for there is still much to be done
still rocking back and forth… timed as in a rhythm
wondering if I will have skin left on my bones
after this is over
quick commands and quicker response no time
for nonsense
Gosh! my skin is red... and sore...
then… she rinse me off and cradles me
in a towel...
smiling without a smile… a thinking face but
pleasant I can’t take my eyes of her
she carries me into the bedroom where she plops
me down on the bed and I giggle with glee... my sister is
already there.… I can relax now… the hard part is over
Here comes the rub-down, not an inch is missed... powder
comes next and bright white undies and lacy slip and
ruffled socks… we were always dressed to match
people always mistook us for twins
she holds my face in her two hands and plants a kiss on my
forehead.… a kiss of approval and satisfaction
"stay on the bed," she says... "do not get dirty before we
have to go".....
We are going to visit grandmother and our favorite
grandfather number one…
one of the best memories of mother when she was
still mother
if we remember them with loving fondness...
they will get wings....
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The grid failed first~
then the pipes burst their seams,
weeping silver tears down frozen walls.
The night groaned under the weight of frozen sky
a thousand fractures in the power lines~
silent screams of transformers dying.
Darkness engulfed the Lone Star State,
gnawing at the edges of counties and cities.
But the men came anyway,
their gloves split by the cold,
boots cracking ice like thin bones.
No heroics, just work~
Men in orange vests moved like ghosts
through glassy, slick streets
their breath leaving them in ragged clouds,
each one a prayer for warmth.
Linesmen dangled like marionettes
from poles slick with betrayal
fingers numb, breath curling in shattered puffs
stitching light back into the sky
one frayed wire at a time.
Blue lights cut through the sleet~
not for crime, but for warmth
for the woman shaking in her car with a newborn,
engine dead as stone.
The police traversed the streets,
tires spinning on invisible black ice,
their cruisers sliding like doomed ships,
flashlights cutting through the gloom
where families huddled under blankets,
where an old man’s oxygen machine sputtered silent.
The fireman’s axe didn’t care about the cold~
only the door it shattered, the grandmother inside
still clutching her rosary.
Firemen across the state kicked in doors,
their axes swung against ice-clogged hydrants,
each strike ringing hollow in the frozen air.
Somewhere in East Texas,
a lone fireman’s breath hung in the air~
white flag of exhaustion
as he hauled another body
from a house without heat.
The child in his arms didn’t shiver.
Not anymore.
All night, the wind screamed.
All night, these men did not stop.
In the morning, as the thaw crept in,
some slept in trucks,
some drank bad coffee from a thermos,
some stood staring at downed lines~
weary, yes, but still standing.
They were not gods~
just men with wives who texted be safe,
whose children didn’t understand
why they had no heat and why lights stayed off.
No monuments would bear their names,
but for a week,
these men were the only thing
between Texas and the abyss.
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