28+ Loving And Emotional Grandfather Poems.pdf

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28+ Loving And Emotional Grandfather
Poems
 Last update: June 12, 2023  In: Top Poems — Leave a Comment
If you’re looking for a special and moving way to honor and show respect toward your
grandfather, how about preparing a loving and emotional grandfather poem for him that can
convey your love and gratitude?
Every holds a certain position in every grandchild’s heart. As we grow up, because of
our busy and hectic daily lives, we forget to spend some quality time with him. We don’t realize
that as time goes by, he has less time left to be with us. The more we accomplish in life, the
lonelier a grandfather must feel as he gets older. Thus, even though it can be a bit difficult
sometimes to find opportunities to express your love and be there for your grandfather, we should
try to find time and more importantly, find ways to remind him that you’re still going to be there for
him and that he is loved and missed. Using poetry is one of the most distinctive and beautiful
When I embrace my grandfather I experience a sense of richness as though I am a
note in the heartbeats of the very universe.
— Tayeb Salih
grandfather
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ways to do that. A loving and emotional poem about a grandfather is the perfect way to show your
sincerity, respect and appreciation for him.
You can use one of our suggested loving and emotional grandfather poems below or even
customize one from our collection to make it more unique for your dear grandfather. Either your
grandfather has passed away or is still with the family, he will love and cherish this gesture with all
his heart. It’s always nice and comforting to be remembered and loved, especially by his
grandchildren.
1, My Grandfather © Zama Zwide
I love you so much even If you are not here with me now
Everyday I wake up and ask my self how
Your funeral was the worst memory in my brain
Till now tranna get it outa my lane
The day a call came and the doctor said he is no more
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My heart hopped
And then stopped
Tears flowing outa my cheeks
Not only that but I was the last day I saw my lil brother
He was from another mother
But to me he was my flesh
Although he was still fresh
He had to go
I tried saying no
And pleaded
But no one listened
My grandfather
My grandmother
My best friend
My lil brother
Lord plz I pray take care of them
2, My Grandfather Clock © John Wright
has some worn hands
from working over
many years of time
but the springs still work fine
for it still brings a skip
within in its steps
it can work like a sundial
my grandfather clock
is not a corner sitter
it is with me all the time
even a little cuckoo bird
comes out of it sometimes
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3, Timeless Wisdom © Samantha Andraos
Lost without you in my thoughts,
Before you I knew nothing of peace,
When I look into your eyes,
It’s your life story I’ve caught.
Your entire life’s journey
Your family on the farm, the war
Dreaming of everyone’s future,
Despite the lack of money.
Listening to these stories,
I sit there in awe,
Holding back the tears,
So you do not see my worries.
This time around, you are not here,
I still see your face in my sleep,
As you look at me you begin to speak,
Telling me to let go of the fear.
4, Great Grandfather Tree © Joseph John Racano
A parent tree teetered and fell to the ground
Crashing like thunder with no storm around
A seedling come sprout at the same time as Stonehenge
When camels in Egypt were first ridden by men
Born in the dawn of soft Aegean bronze
Now visible from Mars atop Arsia Mons
Three hundred hundreds of years as a tree
A hundred generations have knelt before thee
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We in our childhood sophomoric stage
Now just beginning to work through our rage
Craning our necks to adore scented boughs
Here before greatness we offer our vows
Great tree forgive us the fires we start
Know that the brightest one burns in our heart
In spite of our failings we still come to see
Our gnarled dinosaurian grandfather tree
5, My Grandfather © Jeffrey Pipes Guice
He inherited his grandfather’s business
At the ripe old age of just seventeen
Even though he was still a junior in high school
He wore suits to change the way he was seen
He fired all the employees over thirty
He hired a new secretary who was 6’4”
Her name was Helga, and she was 28 years old
She had never been a secretary before
But that didn’t really matter to junior
Because he was now the man in charge
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He called his shots like a brilliant tycoon
And he certainly liked living large
Helga taught him all the skills he needed
To appear like a successful young man
She gifted the confidence a teenager needed
She schooled him as only a good tutor can
While junior was learning her business
The remaining employees decided to quit
The business was failing all around them
Junior proved to be somewhat of a nitwit
Before too long, the business closed down
And Helga left junior for another young tycoon
The moral of the story is don’t ruin your kids
By giving them way too much way too soon
6, When My Grandfather Was A Child © Ricardo
Evanovich
Far off. Far beyond even the cloud banks
lie memories. Coins glinting deep in wishing
wells.
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Every seventh year, the weak sun returns to
survey his kingdom; an absentee landlord.
Something stirs. Night falls and, staring into
evening’s embers, cocooned in cold, we wait
for the ghosts to return to the room he died in…
And then they do. Staring at the mountain,
sat on the edge of a contour line, the sky
lightens; sepia. Father Time stands beyond
the coal shed at the garden’s end, tending
rhubarb by home-made glasshouses. Then,
younger still, with sleeves rolled and unlit pipe,
he watches the distant glow of bombed–out
Swansea burning.
Back again, the present peeled away, to the
village that existed when anthracite archangels
still roamed, black.
He stands there, frozen in celluloid, half-hidden
behind Meredydd. Fear of flash powder; Sunday
best. Monochrome rainbows. Tea and tobacco
by the twist. Shy and pneumonic, as his three
older brothers leave on their great khaki adventure.
Two and a half didn’t return. What did ceased to be
more than merely a presence, with blinded eyes
and a ravaged voice that cried at thunder.
Out at the stone edge of an irrelevant empire, hob
nailed boots sparked. Mothers prayed snow wouldn’t
come when the strikes were on, and the tin bath hung,
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stoic on the wall. Slate faces read second-hand books,
comforted by hymns.
Six days a week he’d go down in the dark and come back
up at night. Naked candles and two foot seams.
Six days a week and then chapel on Sundays – a switch in
servitude but serving just the same. The cross. The pit head.
The chill in the air he couldn’t feel. The far-off sound of
blasting he never heard. All that – staring into the fire and
brimstone of the grate. Black gold. Ghosts wisp and memories
settle, claimed by the dust much finer than sand.
7, Together Yet Apart © Kyra Lee
It’s gotten harder and harder
since the day you went away
but still people keep telling me
everything shall be okay
I know deep inside
that it’s better up there
but we’re not together
which makes it unfair
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Seems like yesterday
that we were together
then I opened my eyes
to realize gone means forever
It hurts and it aches
it’s slicing my heart
for the rest of my life
we shall be apart
I’m waiting for the future
hoping to see
that when I die
You’ll open up those gates for me
Having a Poppy
with a heart made of gold
is my favorite treasure
which will never grow old
Family reunions
will never be the same
’cause you’re not there with us
to be stronger I aim
Your chair at the table
is empty and cold
you need to come home
I need someone to hold
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Now that you’re gone
I have no one to run to
Am I doing this right
please send me a clue
I don’t understand
the meaning of life
I can’t get this right
Keep getting in strife
Do you know
How much we all love you
Do you realize
How much I trust You
You’re officially gone
But forever in my heart
You and me Poppy
together, yet apart
8, A True Hero © Julie Mills
What makes a man a hero?
I’ve often thought this through.
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It’s someone who is macho?
It’s someone who is true?
No, that is not a hero.
He’s just a simple man.
Always there when things go wrong
and who does the best he can.
He lends a strong shoulder
To ease the flow of tears
He holds high the lantern
To drive away your fears.
His smile was just enough
To give encouragement.
His frown more than adequate
To make one soon relent.
When some had need of guidance
His ears he’d freely lend
Advice came in abundance
You chose, not him could you offend.
He had no need of medals
Or glory this is true.
That’s why, dear Grandpa
Our hero has to be you.
9, Just Like Him © Jackie
He taught me how to build a fire;
he gave me hope and desire.
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He taught me how to build a chair;
he told me that life wasn’t fair.
He watched every basketball game
and treated me like fame.
He bought me ice cream
and listened to my every dream.
I talked to him every day,
we never ran out of things to say.
Without him I don’t know who I’d be,
but one things for certain I wouldn’t be me.
He taught me how to be just like him,
and I already am within.
10, Ode To The Gramps © Andy
He was someone’s son.
He was someone’s father.
Perhaps he was someone’s brother.
But he was a little bit of everything,
in order to be Grandfather.
The “Grand” part is appropriate,
considering all the love he could give.
The wisdom he had gained in life
had taught him how to live.
His gentle warmth and kindness
had earned our eternal love and respect.
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Though he would not ask for these things,
they are exactly what he would get.
And that’s another thing we loved,
my Grandfather’s selfless humility.
Upon reflecting on all this, I realize
he IS the kind of person I wish to be.
11, Fishing With My Grandpa © Dawneisha
Washington
My Grandpa and I do a lot of things together,
But fishing with my Grandpa is the best ever.
I love going to the lake when the sky is all blue.
I love riding in my Grandpa’s boat, too.
The next trip to the lake I don’t want to miss.
Just being with my Grandpa is better than catching fish.
12, You Are So Handsome Grandpa © Anonymous
You are such a handsome man Grandpa,
You are the type that Grandma could boast about.
But even more than that you have a heart that is so rare,
You always manage to shower us with so much love and care.
Your memories are with me even if we ever part,
No matter where I go, I always carry them in my heart.
13, My Dear Grandfather © tree.cards
My dear grandfather, a wonderful man,
Always believed in me, knew that I can.
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Wisdom of life, openly shared,
Comforted me, when I was scared.
My dear grandfather, routinely amaze,
Since I was little, you gladly helped raise.
Countless things, with patience you taught,
You listened to me, whenever I thought.
My dear grandfather, I truly care,
You’ve always been, much more than fair.
I’d like to wish you, only the best,
With the dearest grandfather, I have been blessed.
14, Joker Grandpa © tree.cards
Always finds a way, to make fun of my folks,
He is hilarious, with plenty of jokes.
A true expert, on many pranks,
For making us laugh; a little thanks.
At the dinner table, he’s rarely serious,
His tricks are cool, and quite mysterious.
I’m not saying that he knows magic,
Some of his stunts are lame and tragic.
Grandpa knows how to pull your strings,
A cheerful guy, that constantly sings.
Never know, what he’ll come up with next,
Our joker grandpa, fun and perplex.
15, The Way We Were Our Bond © Sinead Harris
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Beautiful blue eyes with serenity of the sea,
Reflection of the skies on a bright and sunny day,
My little hand in yours, my protector and my guide,
Don’t walk too fast, Granddad, for I am by your side.
My eyes are your eyes and your heart is my heart,
We share so much likeness we were never apart,
You would tell me your stories of the Vietnam War,
I felt all that pain as the enemies kept score.
Big strong shoulders not just to carry me but to carry the world too,
The strength inside of you for all you went through,
The peace you gave me knowing you would always love me,
And the kindness and happiness you gave me and I gave you.
No fear do you have or grudges do you hold, my big strong hero
So brave and so bold, a firm hand to hold me, a firm word shows the way
Your little girl forever; it’s the way it will always stay
The bond that we have I have never seen or felt before
My face would light up when you would walk through the door
You tucked me in bed then turned off the light but I wasn’t scared
Of the shadows in the night
For I knew it was you keeping watch over me, no harm and no badness
Would you let me see, safe in your arms untouchable it seems
After God took you away it was all in my dreams
And all that is left are my memories of you
I know you are with me and in my heart; I’m with you too.
Beautiful blue eyes with serenity of the sea,
Reflection of the sky’s reflections of me,
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My little hand in yours, my protector and my guide,
Don’t walk too fast, Granddad, for I am by your side.
16, Fun Grandpa © tree.cards
My grandpa knows, the art of the laugh,
So many jokes, but reveals only half.
We’ll enjoy, those fun random talks,
He makes fun of things, during our walks.
Hilarious moments, he will readily find,
Walk into a wall, and pretend to be blind.
Whenever I see him, he’s sporting a smile,
Mr. Bean, had a much better style.
A serious illness, for jokes he will fake,
Moments later, random faces he’ll make.
Seems like grandpa, just wants to have fun,
At church he tried, to pick up a nun.
17, We Had a Wonderful Grandfather © Anonymous
We had a wonderful grandfather,
One who never really grew old;
His smile was made of sunshine,
And his heart was solid gold;
His eyes were as bright as shining stars,
And in his cheeks fair roses you see.
We had a wonderful grandfather,
And that’s the way it will always be.
But take heed, because
He’s still keeping an eye on all of us,
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So let’s make sure
He will like what he sees.
18, A Grandfather Just Like You © Anonymous
I just want to let you know
You mean the world to me
Only a heart as dear as yours
Would give so unselfishly
The many things you’ve done
All the times you were there
Help me know deep down inside
How much you really care
Even though I might not say
I appreciate all you do
Richly blessed is how I feel
Having a Grandfather just like you
19, My Grandfather © Anonymous
My Grandfather was a man who had smiles to brighten your days,
who always made you feel good with his warm words of praise.
And what’s more he knew
what to do to make wishes come true.
He was my Grandfather
My Grandfather was someone who always had good stories to tell,
but just as importantly he knew how to be a good listener as well.
He was patient and kind
and the very best friend you could ever hope to find.
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He was no ordinary man.
And I’m proud to tell the world that (Your Granddads name here)
Was my Grandfather.
20, A Grandfather © Marie Thurmer
We waded in the shallows,
holding his hands, then just
fingertips, as his feet
slowly lifted off the bottom.
The land did not stop
at the waterline, but simply
became unreachable.
His worn face bobbed above
the waves, breath in an O
as our words, fistfuls
of shimmering minnows,
scattered, lost on their way
to him. The tide carried
him out, then back a bit,
a gradual letting go into dark
waters, and we, still
in the ebb, could almost
mistake that O
for the response we wanted—
on the ins, I’ll remember you,
on the outs, goodbye.
21, Grandfather’s Breath © Ray McNiece
You work. You work, Buddy. You work.
Word of immigrant get-ahead grind I hear
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huffing through me, my grandfather’s breath,
when he’d come in from Saturday’s keep-busy chores,
fending up a calloused hand to stop
me from helping him, haggard cheeks puffing
out like grey t-shirts hung between tenements,
doubled-over under thirty-five years a machine
repairman at the ball-bearing factory, ball-bearings
making everything run smoother—
especially torpedoes. He busted butt
for the war effort, for profiteers, for overtime pay
down-payment on a little box of his own,
himself a refugee from the European economy,
washed ashore after The War to End All Wars.
Cheap labor for the winners.
I hear his youth plodding through the hayfields
above Srednevas, and the train that wheezed
and lumbered to the Trieste, the boat where he heave-hoed
consumptive sister, one-two-overboard.
I hear him scuffling along factory smoke choked streets
of Cleveland, coughing out chunks of broken
English just to make it to Saturday morning balinca—
how he grunted off a week’s worth of grit
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hurling wooden balls down the pressed dirt court,
sweaty wisp of gray hair wagging from his forehead,
This is how the world turns. You work hard. You practice.
And I hear his claim as we climbed the steps
of Municipal Stadium, higher, into the cheap seats,
slapping the flat of his hand against a girder,
I built this, Buddy. I built this.
But mostly I hear how he’d catch
what was left of his breath after those Saturday chores,
pouring out that one, long, tall cold beer
that Grandma allowed, holding it aloft,
bubbles golden as hayfields above Srednavas,
before savoring it down and taking up
the last task of his day off—cleaning the cage,
letting Snowball, canary like the ones once used
to test coal mines for poison air, flap clumsily free
around the living room, crapping
on the plastic covered davenport and easy-chair
they only sat in twice a year.
And I’m still breathing, Grandfather, that day
you took me down the basement to the cool floor
to find out what was wrong. Come on, Snowball,
fly. Fly! The bird splayed out on the same linoleum
where they found you, next to your iron lung,
where Grandma mopped for weeks after,
pointing with arthritic fingers, See. There.
There’s where he fell and bumped his head.
See the specks of blood?She can’t work out.
One fine morning when my work is done
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I’m gonna fly away home, fly away home.
Come on, Snowball, fly. Fly!
22, Grandfather’s Song © Nan Arbuckle
The Osage family moved slowly to the beat,
circling the drum with sons and daughters,
grandchildren and great-grandchildren.
Friends joined behind and beside.
We outside the dance stood quiet,
solemn as the dancers in tribute.
To have a song with Grandfather’s name,
a tribute for a whole tribe to know,
respect for those now our memories–
we should learn from this pride.
My grandfather’s song will have the rhythm
of train wheels on tracks, slow
regular, climbing long slopes.
It will dip and cry like the whistle
of steam rising over the valley,
sharp as red leaves on a mountainside.
Word sounds will jumble and roll
like the voices of many children calling,
playing homemade games of older days.
And in the end it will settle soft,
with the screaking click of a rocker
on a wood porch and tall hemlocks sighing, quiet
as the slow breath of an old man, remembering.
Let us, too, make songs of honor so our old men
are never quite gone.
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23, Grandfather Says © Ai
“Sit in my hand.”
I’m ten.
I can’t see him,
but I hear him breathing
in the dark.
It’s after dinner playtime.
We’re outside,
hidden by trees and shrubbery.
He calls it hide-and-seek,
but only my little sister seeks us
as we hide
and she can’t find us,
as grandfather picks me up
and rubs his hands between my legs.
I only feel a vague stirring
at the edge of my consciousness.
I don’t know what it is,
but I like it.
It gives me pleasure
that I can’t identify.
It’s not like eating candy,
but it’s just as bad,
because I had to lie to grandmother
when she asked,
“What do you do out there?”
“Where?” I answered.
Then I said, “Oh, play hide-and-seek.”
She looked hard at me,
then she said, “That was the last time.
I’m stopping that game.”
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So it ended and I forgot.
Ten years passed, thirtyfive,
when I began to reconstruct the past.
When I asked myself
why I was attracted to men who disgusted me
I traveled back through time
to the dark and heavy breathing part of my life
I thought was gone,
but it had only sunk from view
into the quicksand of my mind.
It was pulling me down
and there I found grandfather waiting,
his hand outstretched to lift me up,
naked and wet
where he rubbed me.
“I’ll do anything for you,” he whispered,
“but let you go.”
And I cried, “Yes,” then “No.”
“I don’t understand how you can do this to me.
I’m only ten years old,”
and he said, “That’s old enough to know.”
24, To See as Far as the Grandfather World © Ray
Young Bear
The photograph. On this particular March day
in 1961, Theodore Facepaint, who was nine
years old, agreed to do a parody. With hand
balanced on hip and the left leg slightly
in front of the right, my newly found friend
positioned himself on Sand Hill before turning
to face the hazy afternoon sun. This was a pose
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we had become familiar with:
the caricature
of a proud American Indian, looking out
toward the vast prairie expanse, with one hand
shielding the bronze eyes. When I projected
the image of the color 35 mm slide onto
the wall last week I remembered the sense
of mirth in which it was taken. Yet somewhere
slightly north of where we were clowning around,
Grandmother was uprooting medicinal roots
from the sandy soil
and placing them inside her flower-patterned
apron pockets to thaw out.
Twenty-nine years later, if I look long enough,
existential symbols are almost detectable.
The direction of the fiery sun in descent, for example,
is considered the Black Eagle Child Hereafter.
Could I be seeing too much? Past the west
and into the Grandfather World? Twice
I’ve caught myself asking:
Was Ted’s pose portentous? When I look
closely at the background of the Indian Dam
below—the horizontal line of water that runs
through the trees and behind Ted—I also know
that Liquid Lake with its boxcar-hopping
light is nearby.
For Ted and his Well-Off Man Church,
the comets landed on the crescent-shaped
beach and lined themselves up for a ritualistic
presentation. For Jane Ribbon, a mute healer,
a seal haunted this area. But further upriver
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is where the ancient deer hunter was offered
immortality by three goddesses. While
the latter story of our geographic genesis
is fragmented, obscuring and revealing
itself as a verisimilitude, it is important.
Ted and I often debated what we would
have done had we been whisked through
a mystical doorway to a subterranean enclave.
Ted, unlike the ancient hunter who turned
down paradise, would have accepted—
and the tribe never would have flexed
its newborn spotted wings. In the hunter’s
denial we were thus assigned as Keepers
of Importance. But the question being asked
today is, Have we kept anything?
Our history, like the earth with its
abundant medicines, Grandmother used
to say, is unfused with ethereality. Yet in
the same breath she’d openly exclaim
that with modernity comes a cultural toll.
In me, in Ted, and everyone.
Stories then, like people, are subject to change.
More so under adverse conditions. They
are also indicators of our faithfulness. Since
the goddesses’ doorway was sealed shut by
our own transgressions,
Grandmother espoused that unbounded
youth would render tribal language
and religion inept, that each lavish
novelty brought into our homes would
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make us weaker until there was nothing.
No lexicon. No tenets.
Zero divine intervention. She was also
attuned to the fact that for generations
our grandparents had wept unexpectedly
for those of us caught in the blinding
stars of the future.
Mythology, in any tribal-oriented society,
is a crucial element. Without it, all else
is jeopardized with becoming untrue. While
the acreages beneath Ted’s feet and mine
offered relative comfort back then,
we are probably more accountable now
to ourselves—and others.
Prophecy decrees it. Most fabled among
the warnings is the one that forecasts
the advent of our land-keeping failures.
Many felt this began last summer when
a whirlwind abruptly ended a tribal
celebration. From the north in the shape
of an angry seagull it swept up dust.
corn leaves, and assorted debris,
as it headed toward the audacious
“income-generating architecture,”
the gambling hall. At the last second
the whirlwind changed direction, going
toward the tribal recreation complex.
Imperiled, the people within the circus tent-
like structure could only watch as the panels
flapped crazily. A week later, my family said
the destruction was attributable to the gambling
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hall, which was the actual point of weakness
of the tribe itself.
Which is to say the hill where a bronze-eyed
Ted once stood is under threat of impermanence.
By allowing people who were not created
by the Holy Grandfather to lead us we may
cease to own what Ted saw on the long-ago day.
From Rolling Head Valley to Runner’s Bluff
and over the two rivers
our hold is gradually being unfastened by
false leaders. They have forgotten that their
own grandparents arrived here under a Sacred
Chieftain. This geography is theirs nonetheless.
and it shall be as long as the first gifts given
are intact. In spite of everything that we are
not, this crown of hills resembles lone islands
amid an ocean of corn, soybean fields,
and low-lying fog. Invisibly clustered on
the Black Eagle Child Settlement’s slopes
are the remaining Earthlodge clans.
The western edge of this
woodland terrain overlooks the southern
lowlands of the Iowa and Swanroot Rivers,
while the eastern edge splits widely into several
valleys, where the Settlement’s main road winds
through. It is on this road where Ted and I walked.
It is on this road where Ted met a pack
of predators.
Along the color slide’s paper edge the year
1961 is imprinted. Ted and I were fourth
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graders at Weeping Willow Elementary.
Nine years later, in 1970, a passenger train
took us to Southern California for college.
It proved to be a lonely place where winter
appeared high atop
the San Gabriel Mountains on clear days.
Spanish-influenced building styles, upper-middle-
class proclivities, and the arid climate had a subtle
asphyxiating effect. Instead of chopping firewood
for father’s nonexistent blizzard,
I began my evenings in Frary Dining Hall
where Orozco’s giant mural with erased privates
called Prometheus loomed above. My supper
would consist of tamales and cold shrimp salad
instead of boiled squirrel with flour dumplings.
Through mountain forest fires the Santa Ana
winds showered the campus with sparks and ashes.
In a wide valley where a smoke- and smog-darkened
night came early, the family album possessed its
own shimmery light. Pages were turned. A visual
record of family and childhood friends. Time.
Ted and I transforming,
separating. During the first Christmas break
in which we headed back to the Black Eagle
Child Settlement, Ted froze me in celluloid:
against a backdrop of snow-laden pine trees
a former self wears a windswept topcoat,
Levi bell-bottoms, cowboy boots, and tinted
glasses. Ted and I, like statues, are held
captive in photographic moments.
As the earth spins, however,
the concrete mold disintegrates,
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exposing the vulnerable wire
foundation of who we are not.
25, A Pastoral © Ellis Parker Butler
Just as the sun was setting
Back of the Western hills
Grandfather stood by the window
Eating the last of his pills.
And Grandmother, by the cupboard,
Knitting, heard him say:
“I ought to have went to the village
To fetch some more pills today.”
Then Grandmother snuffled a teardrop
And said. “It is jest like I suz
T’ th’ parson—Grandfather’s liver
Ain’t what it used to was:
“It’s gittin’ torpid and dormant,
It don’t function like of old,
And even them pills he swallers
Don’t seem no more t’ catch hold;
“They used to grab it and shake it
And joggle it up and down
And turn dear Grandfather yaller
Except when they turned him brown;
“I remember when we was married
His liver was lively and gay,
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A kickin’ an’ rippin’ an’ givin’
Dear Ezry new pains ev’ry day;
“It used to turn clear over backwards
An’ palpitate wuss’n a pump
An’ give him the janders and yallers
An’ bounce around thumpty-thump;
“But now it is torpid and dormant
And painless and quiet and cold;
Ah, me! all’s so peaceful an’ quiet
Since Grandfather’s liver ’s grown old!
Then Grandmother wiped a new teardrop
And sighed: “It is just like I suz
T’ th’ parson: Grandfather’s liver
Ain’t what it used to was.”
26, Love’s Loneliness © William Butler Yeats
Old fathers, great-grandfathers,
Rise as kindred should.
If ever lover’s loneliness
Came where you stood,
Pray that Heaven protect us
That protect your blood.
The mountain throws a shadow,
Thin is the moon’s horn;
What did we remember
Under the ragged thorn?
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Dread has followed longing,
And our hearts are torn.
27, The Seven Sages © William Butler Yeats
The First. My great-grandfather spoke to Edmund Burke
In Grattan’s house.
The Second. My great-grandfather shared
A pot-house bench with Oliver Goldsmith once.
The Third. My great-grandfather’s father talked of music,
Drank tar-water with the Bishop of Cloyne.
The Fourth. But mine saw Stella once.
The Fifth. Whence came our thought?
The Sixth. From four great minds that hated Whiggery.
The Fifth. Burke was a Whig.
The Sixth. Whether they knew or not,
Goldsmith and Burke, Swift and the Bishop of Cloyne
All hated Whiggery; but what is Whiggery?
A levelling, rancorous, rational sort of mind
That never looked out of the eye of a saint
Or out of drunkard’s eye.
The Seventh. All’s Whiggery now,
But we old men are massed against the world.
The First. American colonies, Ireland, France and India
Harried, and Burke’s great melody against it.
The Second. Oliver Goldsmith sang what he had seen,
Roads full of beggars, cattle in the fields,
But never saw the trefoil stained with blood,
The avenging leaf those fields raised up against it.
The Fourth. The tomb of Swift wears it away.
The Third. A voice
Soft as the rustle of a reed from Cloyne
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That gathers volume; now a thunder-clap.
The Sixtb. What schooling had these four?
The Seventh. They walked the roads
Mimicking what they heard, as children mimic;
They understood that wisdom comes of beggary.
28, The Old Armchair © Robert William Service
In all the pubs from Troon to Ayr
Grandfather’s father would repair
With Bobby Burns, a drouthy pair,
The glass to clink;
And oftenwhiles, when not too “fou,”
They’d roar a bawdy stave or two,
From midnight muk to morning dew,
And drink and drink.
And Grandfather, with eye aglow
And proper pride, would often show
An old armchair where long ago
The Bard would sit;
Reciting there with pawky glee
“The Lass that Made the Bed for Me;”
Or whiles a rhyme about the flea
That ne’er was writ.
Then I would seek the Poet’s chair
And plant my kilted buttocks there,
And read with joy the Bard of Ayr
In my own tongue;
The Diel, the Daisy and the Louse
The Hare, the Haggis and the Mouse,
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(What fornication and carouse!)
When I was young.
Though Kipling, Hardy, Stevenson
Have each my admiration won,
Today, my rhyme-race almost run,
My fancy turns
To him who did Pegasus prod
For me, Bard of my native sod,
The sinner best-loved of God –
Rare Robbie Burns.
29, The Centenarian © Robert William Service
Great Grandfather was ninety-nine
And so it was our one dread,
That though his health was superfine
He’d fail to make the hundred.
Though he was not a rolling stone
No moss he seemed to gather:
A patriarch of brawn and bone
Was Great Grandfather.
He should have been senile and frail
Instead of hale and hearty;
But no, he loved a mug of ale,
A boisterous old party.
‘As frisky as a cold,’ said he,
‘A man’s allotted span
I’ve lived but now I plan to be
A Centenarian.’
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Then one night when I called on him
Oh what a change I saw!
His head was bowed, his eye was dim,
Down-fallen was his jaw.
Said he: ‘Leave me to die, I pray;
I’m no more bloody use . . .
For in my mouth I found today–
A tooth that’s loose.’
5/5 (1 vote)
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Grandchildren don’t stay young forever, which is good because grandfathers only
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— Gene Perret
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Robert Frost
(1874 – 1963)
William Shakespeare
(1564 – 1616)
Maya Angelou
(1928 – 2014)
Pablo Neruda
(1904 – 1973)
Emily Dickinson
(1830 – 1886)
Langston Hughes
(1901 – 1967)
Rabindranath Tagore
(1861 – 1941)
William Wordsworth
(1770 – 1850)
Shel Silverstein
(1930 – 1999)
William Blake
(1757 – 1827)
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 Topics: Family
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 September Poems  October Poems
 November Poems  December Poems
 SPRING
Picture
Arcades
The Passion
Psalm 84
From ‘Arcades’
Sonnet VII: How Soon Hath Time, The Subtle Thief Of Youth
 SUMMER
(end) Of Summer (1966)
The Unsubscriber
L’Allegro
A Sign-Seeker
De Profundis
Domicilium
 WINTER
On The Death Of A Fair Infant Dying Of A Cough
Hymn On The Morning Of Christ’s Nativity
De Profundis
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Email * Website
The Farm Woman’s Winter
Her Death And After
Neutral Tones
 AUTUMN
An Autumn Rain-Scene
Last Words To A Dumb Friend
The Mother Mourns
Embarcation
The Ghost Of The Past
Embarcation (Southampton Docks: October, 1899)
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