Grandpa Bill

In my senior english class we are required to write a poem about someone we care for. I decided to write it about my grandpa Bill that unfortunately died of cancer a couple years ago. I wanted to submit it to writers cafe simply because it means so much

Jet black was his hair without any streaks of grey.

My grandma was jealous because hers is that way.

You could find him outside, mowing the grass.

A habit more predictable than Sunday morning mass.

When he wasn't out mowing, the lake was his spot.

As captain of his pontoon, he was "the big shot".

He would take out the family on tours of the lake,

and for July fireworks, the pontoon we would take.

He took pride in his lawn, cooking, and truck.

An '88 Ford and bunny sticker for luck.

A Pabst in the left hand, tongs in the right.

He'd grill trademark steaks by garage light.

There he would stand in a polo and jeans,

cooking our dinner until sizzled and lean.

The way he would eat always tickled me most,

clockwise; between, swig of milk, bite of toast.

But my fondest memory, with my grandpa Bill,

was a camping trip in the Michigan hills.

We set up camp by a lake, in the woods.

Where a fire pit lay and clothing line stood.

Once through the woods, he asked me to race.

The sign down the road would serve as home base.

I knew I could beat him, thought youth was the key,

but long, cross-country legs would always beat me.

For a week we would sight-see and cook over flame.

We'd share funny stories, but I won't mention names.

As a tyke I was always afraid of the night,

but with him and the fire I knew nothing would bite.

I was never bummed out about heading back home,

for I knew next year, another campsite we would roam.

In winter we'd cheer while the Packers played ball.

He would never switch teams when the Packers did fall.

Whenever they lost we would try not to mourn,

which wasn't to hard with Bill's homemade popcorn.

But spring rolled around and my grandpa fell ill.

I thought he could fight it, he had a strong will.

Although he's not here in flesh and in form,

I know he is with me which makes my heart warm.

Some measure love by the length of their arms,

by the persons persuasion, charisma, and charms.

But, for me, love is limitless, an illusion on earth,

formless and measureless, but heavy in worth.

 

 

Reviews

[charleybear]

This brought tears to my eyes! absolutely wonderful!!