What is a Grandpa poem to the man who loves you most?

Grandfather's hand, another poem of the times.

Grandfather's hand by E Lloyd Kelly (the poet.)

I see the years logged in colors, Rich Calypso paints in dynamic shades,

which marks the timeline there on the building blocks,

of how houses were then made.

With the hammer in his right hand,

Bring out the shovel and bring out the spade.

Where grandpa works to build his own house,

And farms the delta lands, out on the glade.

He gathered and brought the money home,

Never give his to the bank then go ask for a loan.

T'was grandpa's hand that had laid the foundation,

He even hews the cornerstones.

Grandfather was mighty with the hammer,

Cuts the wood and plowed the ground,

A marvel of a man was my grandfather,

The greenness of youth yet set in his bones.

Grandma makes babies then,

The family prospered and grew.

Year after year they came along,

So grandpa added yet another row.

Rows of blocks, that is,

They mount up high just like a stair,

He bought them as the money became available,

And store them in the backyard out there.

He added the rooms as we would have the need for them,

A room for Marty, one for Jack, and another for Ben.

One more room added as each child appears,

One for each of them, and then for those children of theirs.

In the sixth generation, the ceiling was set.

Grandpa is still here, he has not moved on yet.

Fifty years later and the picket fence is now up,

Grandpa downs the morning with a satisfied sup.

Satisfied with knowing he'd got it all wrapped up,

As he drinks the coffee out of his favorite cup.

Screaming whispers are so loud now, that one can scarcely even see,

The way things are turning out, from the way they used to be.

Marty’s home which he has just bought in town, is yet to cover up his weary sleep,

Makes my grandfather want to holler, makes him surely want to weep.

It's hardly any bigger than one of these rooms,

Grandpa was to have lament,

At the little mushrooms on which his son,

Had so much good money spent.

But Marty is content,

Said small is the way now to go,

And since the Dinosaurs are already gone,

Big is surely not cool anymore.

Grandpa laments this too,

And shake his weary head,

It's their world now he consoles himself,

My time is over, I'm almost dead.

But what ways are these for a man to live? ...

I'd much rather to up and go,

Than to live and work all my life,

Just to pay back debts I owe.

I must go and lie down now, I've got to go and take my rest,

I've had some great living in my time, I have done for them my very best.

But if I had it all again to do, which of these lives would I even choose?

I'd build my own house all over again, and I'd just as gladly grow my own food.

Listen to this poem, read by the author on the podcast. #poemsofthetimes

By E Lloyd Kelly. 2019.