My John

He built it up with his bare hands,
Tore it down with his soul.
He worked hard all his life,
So he wouldn’t lose control.
He fought for his country.
He hunted for game.
He lost his true love-
After that it was never the same.
Build it up,
Then tear it down-
Is that how life should be?
When he passed away
My heart was torn.
He had a kind disposition,
Though his hands were worn.
Worn with the wrinkles
Placed there carelessly by time.
Worn with the work
Of a man living to his prime.
He loved to be a grandfather,
A figure standing strong with love.
And even when he's gone,
He's smiling from above.
He was, he is, my John.
My great-grandpa-
With strong hands and strong heart
He wove his life
The way he thought it should be.
Kind heart and kind eyes,
He fought and killed for his country.
There were stories in those wrinkles
That settled there with age,
There was a certain kind of poise
And nothing went to waste.
I remember a day
When I saw him there,
Sitting in his favorite room,
Sitting in his favorite chair.
I wish I had seen him there more...
He hated pickled herring,
And how he loved the hunt,
He owned at least five guns at once.
He had the money and the house-
That was never what mattered to him the most.
He loved his family.
He loved them near.
When we all gathered,
We all gathered there.
In that house that he built
With his bare hands,
In majestic red brick,
2*** Southway 31 is where it stands still.
That beautiful house
That reflects his soul-
Reflects what he wanted for us all-
A good strong life
With good foundation,
To grow up happy and strong.
He whispers these things to all of us
Even when he is gone.





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