Daughter Memory Poems | Examples
These Daughter Memory poems are examples of Memory poems about Daughter. These are the best examples of Memory Daughter poems written by international poets.
Your
Beat-up
Pick-up truck,
With the rattle
Somewhere deep inside,
Carries me through the night.
The windows are down, the scent
Of the day's petrichor is strong;
I've seen something new today, I feel
Like the child who once craved your attention.
But we've changed, the truck isn't silver -
Today, from now, we're eye-to-eye.
Our work, bills, meaningless things -
Whatever comes to mind,
I smile and laugh
It all away
In the back
Of your
Truck.
Once, upon a wooden bench beside a quiet pond,
me and dad sat talking beneath a weeping willow tree;
his hand found mine- Oh, we had such a strong bond,
we watched ducks floating, drifting- graceful and free.
found hidden treasure
dad's handwritten diary
flooded memories
Reading all your letters I can find
I can hear you reading, in my mind
Reminding me I’m loved, and you’re kind
I had worn the hat almost to death
It was a fishing cap, with a picture
Cannot remember what the picture was now
it had worn off a long time ago
It had fallen in the lake several times
but I always retrieved it, because it was green
My favorite color, and it had been my Daddy’s
It used to smell like him.
The seams had split, and the brim was peeling
It had slashes in it, as if it had been knifed
I am sure it was at least fifty years old
I kept it until it no longer smelled like Daddy.
My dad used to fill the newspaper sack with air
And then close his fist on it to form a bubble
Then —I think just for my amusement— pop it!
If I was right there he’d let me try to pop it haha
I wonder if he did this at work (the newspaper)
Or was it all for me since I’m easily amused? :)
I’ve tried to do this myself but it’s not the same
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The oven hums,
a steady hymn.
Like December's first snow,
flour drifts across the countertop.
Her hands~
kneading, rolling, pressing~
leave maps in the dough.
I trace them with a cookie cutter,
star-shaped, blunt at the edges.
Powdered sugar hangs in the air,
a sweet ghost.
We laugh,
and it sticks to our cheeks,
to the aprons she sewed from fabric scraps,
to the memories we don’t yet know
we’re making.
The timer rings.
The cookies glow.
And for a moment,
the whole world is warm.
There's one special photo I've treasured
most of all across my many years.
It represents the epitome of love and freedom.
It's a memento of my role model,
someone who valued friendship,
who loved to travel and keep busy.
Memories of a grand-mother who
taught her little grand-daughter
precious skills carried through life.
It's a photo of timelessness,
of memories that refuse to dim.
AP: Honorable Mention 2026
Nervously checking my hair,
Noting the silver is peppered with grey.
My hand trembles as I put on my lipstick—
My favourite shade of pink.
My reflection bears a frown,
But today, I turn it upside up.
The big interview with an angel
Will happen when the clock strikes
Midnight.
The mystery of the night
Is needed for the halo to shine as bright as a star.
I smooth my good dress,
Reserved for special occasions—
And an interview with an angel
Marks it so special.
As this angel
Is so very dear to me.
For you see, this angel,
Living among the stars,
Is my own little girl.
My first and only question,
That I will ask with tears in my eyes,
Will be:
When will I become an angel?
So I can spend the rest of eternity near you.
We lose our loved ones since life is wayward.
For everyone, the breath of death, it stinks.
Its kiss, calamitous shame. E'en flowers
turn martyrs, beauty burns, and despair sinks.
A proud mother barred from her cherished calf.
She hates the dark hole, black toll, worthless tomb
which stakes a Cross, and none will wish to laugh
when elephant sorrows sit in their room.
Delivering the soul that once possessed
this womb, love's fired quiver, miracle born
to seed fresh wonders ~ we had been blessed
to follow your springtime steps too-soon shorn.
Now, standing as rainbows still scroll skies wide,
our hopes on Calv'ry stayed, whate'er the tide.
My hand
Lingers on the page.
A red X marks the date.
Turning the page feels like losing you again—
Every day.
The coldest
Month of the year
Has turned my heart cold too.
My gaze, frozen, is riveted on the date—
You left.
Forever gone,
I am still here.
I would trade all my tomorrows
To have you live out all your days—
So many.
The calendar,
Hung on my wall,
Will therefore remain exactly the same—
A reminder of a precious daughter of mine
In heaven.
Your memory,
Imprinted and deeply ingrained,
Follows me around like a shadow,
Making me forget the real reality, you see—
The mark.
Quote By Poet: "Tears are rain from the eyes."
As your daughter,
your love is etched in my heart.
The dad who took the time,
to help me with homework.
Many wonderful memories drift off,
to a great man and dad.
Now your death,
is etched In stone.
The sky was blue, a beautiful day.
The sun sparkled bright on the water beyond.
She sat in the grass, admiring the display.
She wondered if there were fish in the pond.
Grey marble lined up in long, even rows.
Names and dates, husband, father, brother, son,
Wife, mother, sister, daughter; all of those.
She was still breathing but their lives were done.
Memories flood her mind like never before.
For twenty years they shared a life and love.
She lay on the grass, read his name once more,
With thoughts of him looking down from above.
I guess you know how much I still love you.
One day I’ll be there, to stroll heaven, too.
We gather that which is old
From which there is a story to be told. Like a picture posted on a board so long ago when we were very young.
Like two rocks representing two children, a daughter four and a son one. The two rocks, so filled with memories reaching back to a place and time we hold so dear.
Like fine China made in Germany and gifted by an elderly lady in Chicago 50 years ago. Oh what pleasure to drink coffee from that cup. What pleasantries to be energized by such gracious memories.
Like 'Forever Stones' taken from a river bed that point to both where we are and where we've been. And when our children inquire about their meaning, we tell them of the
Goodness of the Lord.
A clear-beaded mousie
with a pointy black nose,
twitchable beaded tail,
and ruffly yellow clothes.
The tail can tilt her head--
she nods without a squeak!
Quiet little church mouse,
I bought from a boutique.
(True story!)