I wrote this poem when I lost my grandfather last December. It was for the funeral program, so I had very little time to work on it ... but the real reason it's so bad is that I had so much to say. My best poems are when I'm not particular about what the meaning is, so long as it sounds good. Here I ignored a lot of rules just because I couldn't skip certain things I wanted to say about my grandpa.
* * *
I knew a man with gnarled, damaged hands,
Those hands at work without a moment's pause.
Digging in soil, tending his fertile lands,
Sawing a board, feeling for hidden flaws.
I saw him grasp the stick and lift us high
Above the clouds to gaze on earth below.
Sighting through a camera, his admiring eye
Finding beauty to bring to earth and show.
Whether building a treehouse or pulling stubborn weeds,
He didn't rush, but neither did he shirk.
He always had the time for others' needs,
Letting every child "help" him at his work.
"Face to face!" he cried out near his death,
Hoping to see his Savior soon and near
Praising his God until his final breath
Knowing there would be no need for fear.
Now I see his spirit taking flight,
Above the clouds, his soul a glowing spark.
He races to his God, his soul so light.
May we see you again in Heaven, Arnie Clarke.
* * *
I miss him.
