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Poems For Grandma

Our grandmothers are our second mother that loves us unconditionally. They cherish us and take care of us like our own mothers. If you remember in your childhood, your grandmother might have spoiled you with gifts, toys, outdoor events and exciting occasions that your mother would not have given otherwise. They love spoiling their grandchildren and want the best for them. Take the time to go to your grandma and spend some time with her just like when you were a kid. Thank her for her unconditional love despite your quirkiness as a child.

Show your grandma how much you love her and read her poems from 1Love Poems to thank her.

The Grandmother – Poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson

And Willy, my eldest-born, is gone, you say, little Anne?
Ruddy and white, and strong on his legs, he looks like a man.
And Willy’s wife has written: she never was over-wise,
Never the wife for Willy: he would n’t take my advice.
For, Annie, you see, her father was not the man to save,
Had n’t a head to manage, and drank himself into his grave.
Pretty enough, very pretty! but I was against it for one.
Eh!–but he would n’t hear me–and Willy, you say, is gone.
Willy, my beauty, my eldest-born, the flower of the flock;
Never a man could fling him: for Willy stood like a rock.
`Here’s a leg for a babe of a week!’ says doctor; and he would be bound,
There was not his like that year in twenty parishes round.
Strong of his hands, and strong on his legs, but still of his tongue!
I ought to have gone before him: I wonder he went so young.
I cannot cry for him, Annie: I have not long to stay;
Perhaps I shall see him the sooner, for he lived far away.
Why do you look at me, Annie? you think I am hard and cold;
But all my children have gone before me, I am so old:
I cannot weep for Willy, nor can I weep for the rest;
Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the best.
For I remember a quarrel I had with your father, my dear,
All for a slanderous story, that cost me many a tear.
I mean your grandfather, Annie: it cost me a world of woe,
Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago.
For Jenny, my cousin, had come to the place, and I knew right well
That Jenny had tript in her time: I knew, but I would not tell.
And she to be coming and slandering me, the base little liar!
But the tongue is a fire as you know, my dear, the tongue is a fire.
And the parson made it his text that week, and he said likewise,
That a lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies,
That a lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with outright,
But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to fight.
And Willy had not been down to the farm for a week and a day;
And all things look’d half-dead, tho’ it was the middle of May.
Jenny, to slander me, who knew what Jenny had been!
But soiling another, Annie, will never make oneself clean.
And I cried myself well-nigh blind, and all of an evening late
I climb’d to the top of the garth, and stood by the road at the gate.
The moon like a rick on fire was rising over the dale,
And whit, whit, whit, in the bush beside me chirrupt the nightingale.
All of a sudden he stopt: there past by the gate of the farm,
Willy,–he did n’t see me,–and Jenny hung on his arm.
Out into the road I started, and spoke I scarce knew how;
Ah, there’s no fool like the old one — it makes me angry now.
Willy stood up like a man, and look’d the thing that he meant;
Jenny, the viper, made me a mocking courtesy and went.
And I said, `Let us part: in a hundred years it’ll all be the same,
You cannot love me at all, if you love not my good name.’
And he turn’d, and I saw his eyes all wet, in the sweet moonshine:
Sweetheart, I love you so well that your good name is mine.
And what do I care for Jane, let her speak of you well of ill;
But marry me out of hand: we two shall be happy still.’
`Marry you, Willy!’ said I, `but I needs must speak my mind,
And I fear you’ll listen to tales, be jealous and hard and unkind.’
But he turn’d and claspt me in his arms, and answer’d, `No, love, no;’
Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago.
So Willy and I were wedded: I wore a lilac gown;
And the ringers rang with a will, and he gave the ringers a crown.
But the first that ever I bare was dead before he was born,
Shadow and shine is life, little Annie, flower and thorn.
That was the first time, too, that ever I thought of death.
There lay the sweet little body that never had drawn a breath.
I had not wept, little Anne, not since I had been a wife;
But I wept like a child that day, for the babe had fought for his life.
His dear little face was troubled, as if with anger or pain:
I look’d at the still little body–his trouble had all been in vain.
For Willy I cannot weep, I shall see him another morn:
But I wept like a child for the child that was dead before he was born.
But he cheer’d me, my good man, for he seldom said me nay:
Kind, like a man, was he; like a man, too, would have his way:
Never jealous–not he: we had many a happy year;
And he died, and I could not weep–my own time seem’d so near.
But I wish’d it had been God’s will that I, too, then could have died:
I began to be tired a little, and fain had slept at his side.
And that was ten years back, or more, if I don’t forget:
But as to the children, Annie, they’re all about me yet.
Pattering over the boards, my Annie who left me at two,
Patter she goes, my own little Annie, an Annie like you:
Pattering over the boards, she comes and goes at her will,
While Harry is in the five-acre and Charlie ploughing the hill.
And Harry and Charlie, I hear them too–they sing to their team:
Often they come to the door in a pleasant kind of a dream.
They come and sit by my chair, they hover about my bed–
I am not always certain if they be alive or dead.
And yet I know for a truth, there’s none of them left alive;
For Harry went at sixty, your father at sixty- five:
And Willy, my eldest born, at nigh threescore and ten;
I knew them all as babies, and now they’re elderly men.
For mine is a time of peace, it is not often I grieve;
I am oftener sitting at home in my father’s farm at eve:
And the neighbors come and laugh and gossip, and so do I;
I find myself often laughing at things that have long gone by.
To be sure the preacher says, our sins should make us sad:
But mine is a time of peace, and there is Grace to be had;
And God, not man, is the Judge of us all when life shall cease;
And in this Book, little Annie, the message is one of Peace.
And age is a time of peace, so it be free from pain,
And happy has been my life; but I would not live it again.
I seem to be tired a little, that’s all, and long for rest;
Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the best.
So Willy has gone, my beauty, my eldest-born, my flower;
But how can I weep for Willy, he has but gone for an hour,–
Gone for a minute, my son, from this room into the next;
I, too, shall go in a minute. What time have I to be vext?
And Willy’s wife has written, she never was over-wise.
Get me my glasses, Annie: thank God that I keep my eyes.
There is but a trifle left you, when I shall have past away.
But stay with the old woman now: you cannot have long to stay.

Grandmother Told Me So – Poem by Henry Clay Work

The declaration has been spoken,
For Grandmother told me so.
The darkeys have got their fetlocks broken,
For Grandmother told me so.
Oh, won’t they have a lot of iron on hand!
And when the news travels,
Oh, won’t it be grand!
‘Twill sweep like a sugarcane over the land,
For Grandmother told me so.
American Eagle! hysterical bird!
Oh, flap your wing and crow!
The slaves are embellished–yes, that’s the word,
For Grandmother told me so!
There’s curious times in that ur section,
For Grandmother told me so.
They think they will have a resurrection,
For Grandmother told me so.
The penholders raving like persons insane —
The darkeys in exodus, raising cane,
And singing like martingales after a rain,
For Grandmother told me so.
But President Abe forgot Kentucky,
For Grandmother told me so.
And Geneses, too — and that’s unlucky,
For Grandmother told me so.
Malicious champagne will be open’d in vain,
Until we shall break the last ox-yoke and chain —
Till through the Benighted States freedom shall reign,
For Grandmother told me so.

Tale Of Grandmother – Poem by Kumarmani Mahakul

“Grandmother, Grandmother you come and sit,
Tell us a nice story, mother does admit, ”
Said jolly children and offer a chair,
Sitting on chair, tell Granny who has flair.
She looks around the children with a smile,
Pat them with love and tell them in wile.
She plays children’s hunch and does start,
Story tells of great men, deities and heart.
Granny tells how do the great men achieve?
In their life they face many problems and grieve.
Manny people torture them, hinder their path,
Yet they go forward and improve on Earth.
Great men and great women have certain aim,
They do hard labour and don’t bother for fame.
They think all to be good and love to all,
They don’t damn tormentor and never have gall.
Children ask to Grandmother, “Who are deities? ”
Granny explains, “They always do moral duties.”
Deities are like human beings but have no violence,
They have purity love peace and power of tolerance.
Due to virtuous qualities they have miraculous power,
They can fulfil the will of devotees within hour.
Grandma says, “Children! You will be great too,
Try to have righteous qualities, avoid violence-zoo.”
Children thank the Grandma, request and say,
“What is the heart? Please attention pay.”
Kindness sympathy empathy and help to others,
Are known heart, you are souls, all are brothers.

Flowers For Grandmother – Poem by Yevgeny Yevtushenko

I came to the cemetery in the hazy heat of autumn,
where the crosses creak as they split,
to my grandmother-Maria Iosefovna-
and bought flowers at the gate.
In the era of silent movies Grandmother’s braids
were formed into a tight wreath,
and neighbor ladies in the smoke-filled kitchen
called her the Commissar.
My grandmother beat me very little.
A shame that her hand grew tired of beating,
for, in the opinion of a bathhouse attendant,
I deserved nothing but boiling water.
I teased her cat in utter bliss
to be sure no one called me a sissy.
I swapped her eight volumes of history
for three volumes of Man and Woman.
A great soccer game was at hand-
Yugoslavia versus the USSR-
I filched her gold wedding ring
after hiding secretly in the chiffonier.
And that ring, heavy and reddish,
from Grandfather’s finger, who is no more,
got into the clutches of a speculator
for a mere standing room ticket.
My grandmother Maria Iosefovna,
by merely biting the edge of her lip,
so chilled the soup on the table
it was covered with Siberian ice.
In front of a Robert Taylor poster,
back in ration card times,
she slipped on the ice by the bakery
and lost consciousness.
And with two fingers raised,
white-faced like the Old Believer Morozova, *
she repeated only one thing:
‘Be thou accursed! ‘-and I was.
Hiding behind the primus stove, I thought
that Grannie, for sure, from spite
only pretended to be dying…
She punished me-and died.
To the neighbor’s record Rio Rita
she fixed her stare straight up,
and all the relatives implored me:
They continued to curse without stopping,
from right and left-I was fed up!
But Grandmother’s curse
alone stuck in my heart.
And the ring, staring through the loamy soil,
torments, avenges, and glitters from out of the bones…
Remove your curse from me, Grannie,
don’t be sorry for me, but for my children.
The guilty, gentle flowers I
place on the grave in silence.
It never enters my mind
that their stems are suspiciously short.
By the small gray gravestone,
knowing all that goes on with people,
Mother whispers, so Grandmother won’t hear:
“They steal flowers for resale here…Break the stems…”
All of us are caught up in resale.
Perhaps, I had brought as my gesture
flowers, whose stems had once been broken,
but which had been cut clean at the break.
It makes one shudder in the subway or on a trolleybus
to see a couple, cheek to cheek,
with all the stems in the young girl’s happy hand
covered with cemetery clay.
All broken stems get cut off,
and in the shadow of departed shadows
tragic is the sale of suffering,
but the resale is yet more tragic.
If there is a tiny mercenary dropp in me,
then I don’t belong to my family.
Put a curse on me once more, Grandmother,
and never take that curse away.

Source: Poemhunter

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