My GrandfatherA Poem by Keith Written for "A Tribute to our Parents/Grandparents" Contest (Tate Morgan) Thanks for the motivation Tate, been wanting to do this for a while. The lines upon his thin
weathered face A roadmap of his hard life. His formal education
was brief His mind was sharp as a
knife. But in bushmanship and
parenthood He was the top of the
class, Then from the college
of real hard knocks With straight honors he
did pass. . His poker face gave
nothing away But with his eyes he smiled. I saw it each time he
greeted me The love of his first grandchild. He'd lift me high up
into the air And sat me on his
shoulder. Childhood memories ever
more precious The more that I grow
older.
I Lived with him for
several years From near the age of
seven. Our hearts were laden
with sorrow then, My mother gone to heaven. For him the loss of his
first born child Maybe forged from grief
our bond. I felt that in my grandfather’s house Was where I truly
belonged.
I followed his every
single step It just seemed so right
somehow. We split the kindling
and lit the stove, Gathered eggs and
milked the cow. Together we worked in
his garden Where he turned the sod
with ease, He grew rows and rows
of vegetables And we'd share those
fresh picked peas.
When he spoke it was in a mumble And he barely moved his lips. But it paid to listen very hard Coz his wit was dry as chips. He'd often slip in a funny line Without a break in his pace. Like 'Cut a hole in the seat of your pants To keep the flies off your face.'
He told you straight
what was on his mind No time for etiquette
rules. Social graces were
never his strength And he had no time for
fools. 'I'm not going to her
funeral', One occasion he did
shout. 'Best bury that old
b***h facing down To ensure that she can't
scratch out.'
Still very close in my teenage years. We'd talk the hours away. I was always keen to learn from him And about his Bushman's way. He taught me as much as
I could learn And ignited my bushman's spark. A crack shot with his trusty rifle He usually found his mark. . Those memories of
rabbit hunting The wasted bullets were
few. If less rabbits got
than bullets shot He'd ask 'where's the
other two?' And if you went for
that real long shot, A mere spec in your rifle sight. He'd not give you
credit for the kill And just say it had
'died of fright'.
His front yard was
always manicured, Each plant grew how it
was meant. Lavender bush along
every path Filling the air with
it's scent. And still to this day
the slightest whiff Of lavender in the air, I am taken right back
to his front yard And I'll see him
standing there.
© 2013 KeithReviews
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Added on August 6, 2013Last Updated on August 7, 2013 Tags: Grandfather, Bushman Author
KeithGippsland, Victoria, AustraliaAboutI grew up on a diet of Australian bush poetry. Now a business consultant, I spend far too much time on aeroplanes and in hotels, I use this time to write. I like to tell stories and have fun. If y.. more..Writing
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