Pieces of White continued

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Pieces of White continued
Of Another Time
Of Loves Lost
Theatre of the Mind
New Poems
New Poems
New Poems
Beauty of Death
Short Stories
Life With Father: A Personal Story
In Tribute
The Beginning
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Visiting Grandpa



His eyes were greyer than usual, blotched by

lines the years had spun.  His bushy mustache

tickled the corners of his mouth and gently dipped

into the stain of his gum.


I recalled him being taller.

Perhaps now that he was bent

he looked  smaller.

As he rocked in that old oak chair,

he looked me over, again and again.

I seemed to remember a tale he

used to spin, about papa and hounds

and how they howled  when

the autumn winds blew and winter

hid just behind low clouds.

His old white hat had yellowed.

His harsh voice had mellowed.

Yet still his heart bellowed

To be loved.


No longer a child, I may not sit on his knee,

nor talk about life and the freedom to be,

but I had those days of which to recall,

and love the memory of it all

and as grandpa glares through the years,

I smile at him through my tears.

I can write of rainbows
that cross the clear blue sky,
I can write of snow capped mountains
and winged creatures soaring so high.
I can write of summer days,
of moon kissed nights and morning dew,
but I cannot find a single word Jehovah,
to match the glory of you.

The Lace- less Shoe


Today, while cleaning

I stumbled upon an old shoe,

forgotten for all these years,

beneath some boxes in the attic.


For a moment, I was

puzzled.  Why was it there?


I suddenly recalled that old shoe,

brown cracked leather, withered tongue

and missing lace.

I picked it up and held

it ever so close to my heart.

It had not touched the

warmth of a body in

many, many years.

So long ago it was tossed and

abandoned, placed in the

attic with all of the

other things that Mama

left behind.


The day we buried her we used

the lace to tie her

favorite cameo around

her neck.

The old shoe was then discarded,

no longer needed, no

longer thought of,

its eyelets stripped, its sole twisted

as it laid beneath the boxes.



I hold it close to my heart,

 that lace-less shoe,

and remember when it used

 to dance upon her feet,

to tap to the beat of her favorite song.

Seems such a silly thing to

hold that old shoe and yet

I could feel its heart

beat in rhythm with mine

as we remembered the love

that once was ours.