Grandson poems from famous poets and best beautiful poems to feel good. Best grandson poems ever written. Read all poems about grandson.
Here I am in the garden laughing
an old woman with heavy breasts
and a nicely mapped face
SURELY among a rich man s flowering lawns,
Amid the rustle of his planted hills,
Life overflows without ambitious pains;
And rains down life until the basin spills,
On an island the soft hue of memory,
moss green, kerosene yellow, drifting, mingling
in the Caribbean Sea,
a six-year-old named Alfred
I CALL on those that call me son,
Grandson, or great-grandson,
On uncles, aunts, great-uncles or great-aunts,
To judge what I have done.
In the Old Colony days, in Plymouth the land of the Pilgrims
I was born in 1902
I never once went back to my birthplace
I don't like to turn back
at three I served as a pasha's grandson in Aleppo
Forget the suffering
You caused others.
Forget the suffering
Others caused you.
Daddy left his boots for me
and here I have to stay
‘cause Daddy is a soldier,
I’m in charge while he’s away.
O TAKE my hand, Walt Whitman!
Such gliding wonders! such sights and sounds!
Such join'd unended links, each hook'd to the next!
The old man comes out on the hill
and looks down to recall earlier days
in the valley. He sees the stream shine,
the church stand, hears the litter of
LO, praise of the prowess of people-kings
of spear-armed Danes, in days long sped,
we have heard, and what honor the athelings won!
HERE, while the Thracian bard's enchanting strain
Sooths beasts, and woods, and all the listn'ing
The female Bacchanals, devoutly mad,
I ate pancakes one night in a Pancake House
Run by a lady my age. She was gay.
When I told her that I came from Pasadena
She laughed and said, "I lived in Pasadena
In the spirit’s solitary hours
It is lovely to walk in the sun
Along the yellow walls of summer.
Quietly whisper the steps in the grass; yet always sleeps
"How shall I be a poet?
How shall I write in rhyme?
You told me once 'the very wish
Partook of the sublime.'
PALLAS, attending to the Muse's song,
Approv'd the just resentment of their wrong;
And thus reflects: While tamely I commend
Those who their injur'd deities defend,
The sun was in the summer grass,
the Coolibahs* were twisted steel;
the stockman paused beneath their shade
and sat upon his heel,
Shepherd. That cry's from the first cuckoo of the year.
I wished before it ceased.
Goatherd. Nor bird nor beast
There's a big zelkova tree on the hill,
Long ago, in my child days at home town.
Under it my grandmother waited me on the hill
Whenever I visited her house in home town.
Immediately after a grandson and his grandma walked into the bookstore…the grandson walked up to me…a little bit bemused…and asked if I would help his grandma…he smiled saying…"She is a bit confused."
"Certainly! " I said without a moment's hesitation…then the grandson told me this story…as a way of explanation.
Yesterday we took a little road trip…to Lakeland, Florida we roamed
to help our eldest grandson, his girlfriend and their dog move in to their new home
Two quick notes about time…two facts we can't deny….
I remember the day of her funeral…I noticed him…right from the start…and his is the memory that stands above all the others…that, to this day, remains etched in my heart.
The first pew in the church sat empty…except for her youngest grandson (his parents said he wanted it that way) …he said when it came time to talk about Grandma…he had something he wanted to say.
"Grandpa...what is love? " His grandson asked with wonderment in her eyes.
"You ask a question with many answers." His Grandpa said. "Let me try and clarify."
"Love is like the moon." he said."It softly enchants our gazes…Its light is strong…its light is infinite…yet…it goes through many stages."
He loved the stories his Grandpa would tell when he'd visit him on the reservation…his favorite story…the one he'd always ask for…was about the stars…and their creation.
"The stars form secretly in the Earth", Grandpa would begin, as he set him on his knee… "they drift under the surface until they find the roots of the cottonwood tree."
One reason we are drawn to slow walks along the beach…besides the beauty we are shown…is that every walk along the shore has a magic of its own.
Even though we may walk the same beach…may amble the same shore
each walk is filled with subtle differences than the walk before.
Well I read your poem I was all along wondering butterflies have life not more than a week how could they fly from North of Canada and return also but you clarified many died so how did so many reach Mexico I still wonder but after the winters you have clarified on their return journey none ever returned only produce kid butter flies which en route died (en route) seven generations ~one per week... so the original ones never did ever reach ~that is how over millions of years we too did reach.... bacteria virus and then as of now genes~ males and females X ~ Y in varying genes father to son~ to grand one~ then greater grandson ~one must have one, a son male sperm ~Y~ vertical transmission of sperms~ thirty years one generation so has nature expanded too~ to a hundred years with newer vaccination~ may be back to shorter generations ~and all over as butterflies once again become--- that is how nature plays fun and we still after one single one for ages run ~take it as a pun fun
The other day as I headed out on the early walk I always take…in the silence of the morning I heard those familiar sounds a baby makes.
And I thought…isn't this a wonderful way for a new day to begin…so, as those sounds drifted to me on the morning breeze, I stopped to drink them in.
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