I wrote this on Christmas Eve, after I watched my Grandpa (papa) playing with my nieces, one of which is 3 and the other is 18 months. It made me realize that there is a lot about him I didn't realize. Usually, he just sits around and talks about politics and the weather, but if you're willing to listen, he has so many stories to tell, and other people have so many stories about him to tell. All the stories I mention in the following poem are true. Enjoy!
Papa
There he sits,
Weathered face, gnarled arthritic hands,
Telling the same stories over and over,
Like how he used to stand on the old dam with his .22,
And shoot at alligator gars as they caught frogs in the shallows.
Or the story about how he was taught to fight Krauts and Japs,
But never got to fight, unlike his brothers,
And what about the time he drove through Austin,
As a sniper rampaged.
And who could forget his vetrinary degree,
Earned through years of hard work,
And his graduation ring, in the family vault?
Don't forget how he saved a little boy's dog,
Gave it stitches,
His payment a penny the boy had in his pocket.
But, then there are the sadder stories,
Like how he was the lone survivor of that horrible car wreck,
The one that killed his best friend,
How he crippled his hip, delivering calves,
And how the arthritis forced him to give up what he loved.
Yes, he still sits there,
Sad, a little bitter,
But still a kind soul,
Still, and always, my papa.
The lines about the car wreck were just added as I typed this. They weren't in the original draft. Comments and critique would be great.
