*GRANDMA WAITS IN THE GARDEN*
Hi, grandpa, it's me again!
Your dentures sit in an open glass above the nightstand
Remember the tears grandma sang before she passed?
The way she looked into your eyes,
Moments before she said her goodbyes
Grandpa, I found a note from grandma,
She waits for you.
Hi grandpa, it’s me again!
The rocking chair is old and dusty
Remember the way grandma sat me on her lap?
Read many stories before I took a nap
How she enjoyed stroking my hair with her hands
I miss the way she rocked me to sleep every night
I stored your hearing aid away
Remember that special musical box in grandma's drawer?
I opened it last night, to watch the ballerina soar
I wish you could hear the tiny chimes grandma loved
I hope you don’t mind, I’m keeping grandma's favorite scarf
I'm caressing grandma’s picture frame
Remember the way she looked in the yellow pretty sundress?
Grandpa, I miss the things grandmother did for you
Like the walking cane, she handcrafted before she left
Hello, grandpa, it's me again!
Here I sit holding your hand
I have no more tears
Soon you will see her again
She will no longer be alone
Say hi to her, give her a kiss
Tell her I miss her so much
Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2013
Out in the middle of a large farmland, I become a girl of old charm and unexpected songs again. Past the flanks where cluttered rows of hyacinths and ferns quiver, disarranged huts begin to shake as the rough wind wheezes. And on this late July, mounds of dust remind me of summers back in my grandfather’s hometown. Yet, a different vanishing overtakes me.
a season passes…
carrying all its flowers
to emerge as buds
Watching for thrushes that grow moist from dusky froth , my heels trek along deepened clay. As I lay on haystacks listening to stars chiming, the inky moon sinks its riddled face through a veil. Somehow, I feel alone...abandoned like the opera of a heart which seems to fall into a tragic ending. Yes, Grandpa isn’t around any longer, as a eulogy of tears swells.
on this barren field…
a solitary twig cracks
from one glittered tree
The nightfall drools looking for the yellow among clouds. For a while, the hazy outlines of strangers--native women and children ---disturb my old revelries when Grandpa would linger by the porch dipping tunes from his violin. Through calm intervals of laughter, we sway together; fire to air, salt to honey. Much as I need to inhabit this space, it no longer belongs to me, or to him. But twilight comes brimming with all the glistened jewels of our own world.
between two lifetimes
is a haunting melody…
like a song unsung
Creative Haibuns Contest
For Charlotte Jade Puddifoot
Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2015
I sit here on the old porch steps, that I have always known
A weathered stoop, with gray floorboards
with creaks and groans, flaws and chips, ... familiar to my hand
I have come to some conclusion,
and I'm surprised to understand,
how well I know each board, each slat,
the shape, the size, the warps, the cracks
each rusty nail, ....
but not the facts of you.
Oh yes, ... I've seen a glimpse or two,
in photographs. I have a few...
I see a robust man, in yellowed hues, of vintage stock...
By a house, a barn, where land is strewn with stones to move.
You stand behind a horse and plow, in coveralls,... a mustache too .
I do recall, so vaguely gray, as gray as the paint beneath my hand...
a jolly man, a wrinkled face,
with a smile, a laugh, a loving way
A dream I have, or is it real?
Is that me when I was two,... sitting here, beside you then?
Or is it just my wish to know... more than just a trace of you?
I never knew the man you were, your hopes your dreams...
the thousand schemes that brought you to these rocky slopes
so far from where your hopes began
Where the steep cliffs rose and seas were blue.
Today, beyond these furrowed rows,...
tall grasses grow in amber waves
The eyes will wander, and shadows grow
I ponder how it came to be....
that I am me,....
who came from you;
a man I never knew.
(To watch the youtube video recitation:)
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2013
I'm sure this hill is where it stood.
Amazing shapes of stuccoed wood.
A glass-brick, neon stream-lined place.
As if it flew from outer space,
A swing band auditorium,
An Art Deco emporium,
When romance, innocent in pace,
From dancing to a teasing chase.
The town grew west in modern haste
And down it came, without a trace.
The war and culture's change in taste,
Predestined doom, the past erased.
The future sighs, with solemn face
The wrecking ball, the glittered waste
No plaque to read "Historic Sight".
The swirling dust, a dance goodnight.
Copyright © Gene Bourne | Year Posted 2014
Thea, grandfather Alferd's dog died, she was so old and sick
Now is Thea on the moon, says Adrian who is six
Michael Jackson died so unexpectedly and abruptly
He is on the moon and plays with Thea, says Adrian who is a big fan
Betzy, grandfather Arild's dog died, she was also old and sick
Now Betzy is also on the moon with Thea and Michael Jackson and play all day
Great Grandmother died so unexpectedly and abruptly
Adrian who is six had difficulty understanding
Adrian who is six cried many tears for Great Grandmother
but comforted himself with the fact that she is sitting on the moon and
makes waffles to Thea, Michael Jackson and Betzy
A-L Andresen :) - A true story -
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
Copyright © Sunshine Smile | Year Posted 2012
On this October's mild stirrings
I watched ached nights flicker, to glow
Around his hair like angel wings
Recalling joyrides... so mellow.
That in hushed tones,I called Gramps' name
Enshrined within my youth's warm space...
My hands folded with love aflame,
While prayers spilled through chill's embrace.
Though failing heart quivered in ticks,
Faith...way back then when I was ten
Gripped, he was nearing sixty six
As prayers trailed,wafting amen.
Until spring came, Gramps' flare restored
With new life blessed from harbor's ward.
Way Back Then When I Was Ten
Kelly Deschler's Contest
Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2016
My Grandpa was inimitable… uncommon.
He could make a story out of a passing wind
and have me crying, giggling like an imp--
this God-given knack could spin yarns of myth
that even my siblings rasp with bulging eyes ,
mouths wide as a crater, entranced from
delicate plots soaked in mystery.
Every trail was one step away from anticipation,
but a story was a story, the larger the better…
how could a pirate turn into a lizard
or a starlight emerge as a queen?
It didn’t matter what the tale was about,
for between, “And then” and “Later on,”
my gasp was sucked deep into
another world beyond my own knowing.
Oh Gramps would pull out his violin
while we both serenaded the clouds,
unmindful of Granny’s holler
from the kitchen. Somehow, no one
had the power to wheel us back to reality –
not yet: Not until he passed on in his sleep
at 68--- my young adult-heart ravaged, minced.
I wipe these vintage books he left for me,
a scent of faint cigar drifting among earmarks
which likely mesmerized, invigorated
those he entertained around his theater-stage…
and I , a dear audience, was the special one of all.
Broken Wing’s Contest: Old jewelry or Just old things,
or Old, Old Poems
Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2016
I once had knew a man
Who became older than a dead man
A tired soul, he was.
Looked like he'd never seen a bed
His gray hair resembled a cloudy day,
With fog, and his swollen eyes -
- looked like someone had just punched him in the face
His skin was wrinkled like a dollar bill in a child's pocket
Told to put it in his wallet, but Gosh darn it, he didn't think it
the skin on his face was sagging like the jeans of a teenage delinquent,
Or like borrowing a pair from someone who weighs a hundred more than you
His back was hunched like he was searching for answers that lie upon the ground
He had always kept his walker close to him, it helped him get around.
Too someone else, he may just seem to be an old man
But too me, he is a gold man.
'Cause That's my old man.
Copyright © OP Threat aka God | Year Posted 2017
Brutal was the biting wind,
sweeping brown locks of a tiny urchin
side to side, often hiding her eyes.
Oversized slippers she had donned
were lost in deep snow drifts.
She plodded forth barefoot, risking frostbite.
Little daylight remained to guide her;
a dangerous holiday trek she undertook.
Villagers in passing carriages didn't notice her.
With snow falling fast and accumulations growing deep,
she didn't realize she'd left the main road.
If only she could find her grandfather's cottage!
For Christmas Eve it was,
but in her heart there was no joy.
Her cruel stepmother’s house she left in search of love.
As darkness fell, the biting cold increased.
Her weary legs she dragged; with teary eyes she searched
in vain, for only shadows could she see.
A green-clad elf with lantern lit was homeward bound
deep in the woods, when all at once he spied this forlorn girl,
sprawled on the snow deprived of strength and shivering.
He shone the light on her white face; eyelids moved and flickered.
He read her thoughts and understood; he knew just how to help her.
No time was lost; his crystal flute he blew to call his trusted friends.
An entire family of elves pulled the shivering child,
placing her gently on a sled,
fully decked out in Christmas flare.
The elves had been on their way to Santa;
Yuletide deliveries had to be made,
but the wee girl's plight took priority.
Once she was aboard the sled,
reindeer arrived on cue,
ushering the crew to the North Pole.
The little girl came to quickly,
nestled in Santa's arms.
With pleasure he brought her to her grandfather's cottage.
Grandfather sat alone by his roaring fire
when a knock came to the door.
He went to see who it could be so late into the night.
There on the doorstep his young granddaughter stood with shining eyes,
a dream come true for those who never give up hope.
He picked her up in welcome arms, a warm embrace of love.
The clock struck twelve. They heard the sound of jingling bells
as Santa waved goodbye and off he sped across the sky.
Christmas had arrived, and his first gift had been delivered!
[Inspired by the first paragraph of The Little Match Girl by H.C. Andersen]
Co-written by: Paul Callus~Carolyn Devonshire~Valentina Stagno-Navarra
Contest: A Christmas Tale
Sponsor: Debbie Guzzi
Copyright © Paul Callus | Year Posted 2014
I might make a noise right now
There will be a time when I go silent
Will you miss my racket?
In those days of silence?
I will no longer yearn for your presence
Like I do at this very moment
Will you wonder?
Will you wish?
For that good morning?
I might be a nuisance right now
I might ask you the same thing over and over
My voice will go silent
All I ask today is be patient with me
Please love me; with your ears
Please love me; with your time
Before all you will have
Is my grave and the memories…
"Thoughts of the aged - loneliness don't discriminate "
Copyright © Wilma Neels | Year Posted 2015
Twenty years have passed by since you left this world
For the world you are officially gone
For me you are always around
The greatest teacher ,my biggest strength
My most wonderful grandfather.
I feel the protection and guidance of your's around
I remember and cherish those beautiful days together
I have learnt all the wonderful things that you've taught
I do feel you look down on me with all your love.
You never let me be away from you every single day
Sharing the cup of tea together
Sharing the stories of your time with zest and passion
Every morning watching over the mighty kanchenjunga from our window
To Humming our favourite song together.
I miss you dearly my adorable Grandfather
You gave me so many wonderful memories for life
I remember your eyes always looking out for me whenever i wasn't around
Caressing me with all your love and blessings
I miss those beautiful memories spent together
Today is the day i remember
You left me without a proper goodbye
The same morning making me swear i remain happy and strong forever
Showering me with all the love you could
I am so fortunate my childhood was amazing journey with you.
Deep inside me i know you are in better place above
I love and miss you with all my heart
I wish i could see and have you here
In my heart you are always there
May your soul rest in peace
My Darling grandfather
Copyright © bandana basnett | Year Posted 2016
The leaves have turned brown and crisp
And I've remembered
How much you've been missed
On a day like today
It's the days when I feel down
And I'm sad
That you're not around
Desperately in need of a grandpa's embrace
You were like my best friend
And I'm yearning
For the hours we'd laugh on end.
Now I'm doing quite the opposite
The memories harvest in my mind
As I bow to your grave
With flowers of all kinds
Commemorating the part you played
In shaping the person I am today.
A granddaughter that misses you dearly.
Copyright © Emmy Weatherill | Year Posted 2015
He sits there, not quite motionless, for
even the comfortable must alter their
perception occasionally, frozen stare
upon a craggy visage, tiny fox-like predator
eyes peering into your soul. “What are his
origins?” ask the bespectacled intellectuals.
“Who is he?” and “Why has he taken up
his unwelcome residence here?” The buses
pass carrying workers, students, captains
of industry. They look at him but they do
not see him. The children see him.
Wonder in their dreams how he came
to be. Some want to be rid of him.
They have no reason, no justification
for alarm, nothing to warrant their
uneasiness. One daring young lady
sat beside him, whispered a secret to
him, both shook with laughter.
Passersby were startled to see the
interaction and summoned the
the childs mother. “What have you
taught her that makes her think that
she can do such things?” They asked.
The young lady tried to speak but was
hushed by the serious looks she was
getting from the adults. That evening at
bed time the young lady’s mother asked
her: “What did you say to him?”. “I said:
‘You look like grandpa.”. The mother sat
back, quieting a tear, and reminded the
young lady that her Grandpa was no
longer here. “I know, Mommy”. She said.
Well then, what did “he” say to you?”
The young lady sat up in bed and smiled
“He said that he was there every day,
and any time I wished to sit with him
and read to him it would be fine.”
“Mommy”, she said, “do you remember
grandpa”? “You know …how his face was
all rough, and his hands hard and
spidery, and how he would like it when
I sat with him and read?” The tear that
had been held “quiet” made a sound,
ran down the mother’s face as she
hugged her daughter and put her
to bed. The next day mother and daughter
walked to the old tree, felt the roughness
of his face, touched his spidery thin
branches, sat with him – and read.
Soon others came to visit, sitting and
whispering, laughing and reading.
for they know who he is, what his
origins are, why “he” waits so patiently.
John G. Lawless
For PD's WHATEVER - Poetry Contest
Copyright © John lawless | Year Posted 2014
Where do I come from? Well we all come
from somewhere. I was born in a small
town, here in in good old U S of A. South
to the border, by the Rio Grand. Mission
Texas is the town's name.
My real parents came from Mexico. My
grandmother, it was said - she came from
Spain. My grandfather was indian. He fought
in the Revolution. Both were on my mother's
On my father's side, never knew too much,
only that the grandmother died kind of
young. The grandfather died years later, but
I never got to know them.
My father left my mom, when I was only three.
He never came back. My mother gave away my
sisters, than later she gave me. She only kept
my brother, maybe she couldn't keep me.
I was raised with a nice lady and her husband.
I learned to call her mom. That title she had
earned and my respect most of all. My parents
that raised me were poor, but made sure I had
something to eat. My mother made my dresses
so that I could go to school.
I learned to read and write and enjoyed school
very much, but I had to quit at fifteen to help my
parents out. Years later I went back and finished
my High School.
I did not go to college , or mastered in any degree.
I am what you might call self taught. For about thirty
years I worked with electronics and did my job well.
I gained respect from my bosses and high top
My parents taught me good values that have helped
me through out life. I am not ashamed of my
origin, of Mexican Heritage I came. I am what you
would call a TEX. MEX. and I live up to my name...
Just a little about myself. Hope
you enjoy it.
written by Lucilla M. Carrillo
Copyright © Lucilla Carrillo | Year Posted 2012
My grandfather on my father’s side, was a pecker-toothed sidle who raped his
daughter when she was just ten. He threw down vodka from an eternal well and took my father out to buy prostitutes when he was just fifteen... It was here that my father first learned the true value of a woman. Mercifully, a permanent steel brace got loose at the Pennsylvania steel mill where he worked and crushed Grandfather into a pool of blood and urine.
My father was a dried seed rattling in an empty gourd… he had grown up
hardened with leather-stiff roots exposed too long in the sun. My mother knew
that he wanted to rape me, so I kept guard with knives and ran away whenever I could. I went to bed fantasizing how to sneak into his bedroom and kill him with
the kitchen carving knife.
My older brother hadn’t adjusted well to the chaos either, so he put all his expectations and dreams into a matchbook and burned down three houses in the neighborhood. He secretly, robbed his friends of their valuable coin collections. He grew weary and confessed and was taken to a local Mental Hospital for evaluation. At fourteen, I needed a good stiff drink! I was transferred to two different foster care homes and grew up like a weed.
My mother Dolly was an auburn haired porcelain bisque, matt finished doll from a
discriminating collections of dolls... her father's dolls. She was not a witty woman
but silent, afraid and alone. She gave birth to three children who grew up like
wild dogs while Dolly made Betty Crocker weekends and otherwise TV dinners
until she grew tired... very tired.
One day the brothers were playing with Dolly tossing her back and forth…
like a ball, one to another... until we dropped her. Fragile, she shattered into pieces
on the gray cement patio. My father came out determined to put the pieces back
together but clumsily, he repeatedly stepped on Dolly crushing the refined
fragments into powdered dust.
Copyright © julie heckman | Year Posted 2011
Personal Memories - Three Generations
Three generations in between them now so kindly lie;
sweet great granddaughter and great grand-papa can now belie
those years. She reads to him, and he so tenderly sits by...
two children now, they share these moments that now clarify
the bond of one on one where young and old does not apply.
Sandra M. Haight
Contest: Personal Memories-Monorhyme Poetry
Sponsor: Laura Loo
Iambic Heptameter - 14 syllables and 7 feet per line
Used Photo #3 - Laura Loo's daughter Ella reading to her great grand-papa
Copyright © Sandra Haight | Year Posted 2016
They fought the tide to own this land
A fight I did not understand
They fought the plow, they fought the drought, they fought the debt
But yet,…by God,……they owned the pride
In retrospect, I'm still ashamed
It was, my flippant pilgrimage
I had come a stranger to this place
About to step upon the moon,
A cratered space of rocks and sage
Of rolling hills, with no escape
She saw it differently, of course
Although her body weary, worn
Her eyes were strong, ...she saw a home
Her age was then, what mine is now
It had been her home, and it had been her vow
To come again, just one more time.
I was thirteen, and dragged along
I overlooked the great attraction
I could not see the satisfaction
I missed the light upon her face
She saw the youth she left behind
Her gray eyes drinking up the sun,
I saw the dust, I saw the bones,
Where she saw beauty, I saw none .....
Nothing more than a sea of weeds, the crumbling brick,
A place to shuffle my restless feet
But stories came, and they sunk in….
And now I view with wiser eyes…
She told me all these things back then…but now, I smile,… remembering.
They had to fight to own this piece of land
They fought the plow, they fought the drought, they fought the debt
And yet,…oh yes,…….they owned the pride
Recited on youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kAchI2nu9yY
For Deb's Contest:....2nd Option..(With age comes wisdom, understanding and
appreciation. I am never too old to keep learning
and value those who came before and made me
who I am.)
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2013
I have loved him since I was young.
Through every cloud, he rose the sun.
His work was honest – one-on-one with land.
I loved this farmer and his callused hands!
Safe, strong arms would lift me to sit upon his tractor.
Picture girl and Grandpa - no memory could be happier.
Today, I took the inherited watch from my mantle.
Now the cherished timepiece accompanies my flight,
Perhaps lending faith to my emotional plight.
Precious ticking in my pocket comforts my destination;
Brings forth his presence and I will not try to stop it
For the watch soothes my driving desperation.
Steering, I experience a constant sense of feeling
That wings have sprouted beneath my vehicle this day
As prayer of golden air to deliver me straight there.
So many endless miles of thunder under my wheels.
Thoughts ever somber tumble various appeals.
I gasp down feelings he may leave before I show.
He stays in my heart’s eye while I consume highway
On burning, dedicated tires determined to fly
Because Grandma phoned to say, Grandpa would soon die.
Contest: Stand by Your Man
Sponsor: Silent One
Copyright © CayCay Jennings | Year Posted 2015
Extended family, children play
as sunbeams fall all slanted,
‘round a wooden table in the shade
of a tree great-grandpa planted.
I like to think he smiled back then,
with sweaty brow, and handsome grin.
Old and wise – I’m sure he knew,
in time his tree would block the view.
I wonder if he thought about,
his family tree - with branches out?
The bonds of blood were strong and grew.
So has the shade he never knew…
Copyright © 2014
Copyright © Cole Banner | Year Posted 2014
Bilum is a type of woven bag in Papua New Guinea (PNG)
How grandfather’s bilum, which
Across my father’s bare chest,
In a loving embrace slung.
Like the Leleki baskets’ blest
How while so pregnant swung.
How dwelleth he my father in its rich
Splendour till handing-over of its rest,
Then over my clothed chest again sways.
O this old bilum! like all other blest
No longer is laden with in my days.
For its treasures I search in earnest,
That I may grandfather’s mind know.
O this bilum is no longer pregnant!
Along the way, maybe some time ago,
How many treasures fade; this instant
Till my sleep, I’ll summon eagerness
To my modern soul strengthened to seek.
Grandfather’s treasures may be hidden;
Yet through a new eye must I ever peek
For glimpses my days have forbidden.
By: Jeffrey Febi 25 Oct 2010
Copyright © Jeffrey Febi | Year Posted 2013
It was so long ago
It still holds the place in my heart
The one I reserved for special moments
The times before his health
got the best of our relationship
Back when my grandpa
was able to be my
It was my first parade
and one of his last
The Halloween of
but there was also the usual
witches, and monsters
but most importantly
there was my grandpa.
He volunteered to help
with the small monsters
of classroom 301 that year
which would also be his last
so he was able to walk with his
even if he kept stopping
to pick up candy
along the way.
walking with him
along the crowded streets
past the sirens of the firetrucks
and over the steep hills
will forever beat any memory
trick or treating
passing out candy
or the endless Halloween parties
for that was just a moment to enjoy
now that his old age has hit him
there's no more walking
no more dressing up for Halloween
just to see a smile on the face of
his little monsters
That moment will forever hold my heart
ten years ago was
the last time
of a grandfather
walk beside her
Copyright © Alexis Hogg | Year Posted 2015
Wise Grandfather Shaman,
I am pure of Heart,
I bathe beneath the Moon,
and dry beneath the Sun,
I listen to the Wind,
I run with the Deer,
I hunt with the Wolves,
I fish with the Eagles and Hawks,
I ride with the Wild Paints,
And roam with the Buffalo,
I grow with Grandmother Tree,
Ever learning from her Wisdom,
I am skilled in Warrior Ways,
A strong Hunter,
A compassionate Listener,
A patient Tracker,
I have gathered with the other women,
Contributing to our tribes growth and strength,
I leave no tracks of moccasins in the soft clay,
My heart is pure,
And I wish to continue my journy,
Wise Grandfather Shaman,
Allow me to enter your lodge,
I will smoke from the sacred pipe,
My heart is pure.
Copyright © Jay Loveless | Year Posted 2012
You see him at the store sometimes
He doesn’t walk too fast
His stride has slowed throughout the years
He slowly moves on past
The hair upon his head is white
If there’s any there at all
He may be stooped or bent a bit
A cane so he won’t fall
He smiles but you don’t know his name
He waves a weathered hand
You might smile back and say hello
There goes a nice old man
What you don’t see beyond his face
His life of ninety years
The wife he met the kids he’s raised
The joys and work and tears
The letters won for high schools sports
The girls he used to date
The time his father grounded him
For coming home too late
The war he fought for freedom’s sake
Tales too hard to speak
The friends he lost the wounds he bore
The tears upon his cheeks
The job he worked for forty years
That kept his family fed
The home he built with his two hands
The church group that he led
Time and youth have slipped away
His mind is not as clear
His friends have mostly left this earth
He’s lost his wife so dear.
When next you see an aged gent
Who passes through your day
There’s more to him than leathered skin
There’s much that he could say
He doesn’t want your sympathy
Nor pity could he stand
Don’t treat him like a feeble child
Approach him as a man.
He still remembers all he’s done
He hasn’t lost his pride
Respect his years for you’ll be there
And know his heart inside
Copyright © John Curtis | Year Posted 2013
Impressionable young hearts do tell the grandest lies
When learned from grandfathers with sparkling eyes
Grandfathers living renewed through the breath of a grandchild
Oh grandfathers’ whoppers told in all kindness and glory
The bigger the whopper makes the child’s lies the cute little story
Thus the grandchild’s faith breeching walls of reasonable reality
Simply because beloved grandfather had told the story
My grandfather said it was so- tiny voice of pledged belief
And I believe him -for grandfather would never lie to me
So sleep little one- dream the telling’s of funny grandfathers beloved
For their little lies to you are meant to not make you a worried
But make you believe in the impossibilities of grandeur and extravagance
There is a Santa Clause
The fish really was so big it couldn’t fit in the boat
I wrestled a grizzly when I was just about your age
For in the telling of such blessed little lies
A remembrance of grandfather will never die
The wisdom and laughter thus remembered in each time’s telling
Will warm you over and over- as little lies do you begin the telling
Copyright © Mark Goodson | Year Posted 2012
It was a homeless old man near a shoe store who fell asleep
He was so tired that nap turned to a sleep that was deep
A little boy walked passed with his mother and noticed that the old man had one shoe
He felt sad, “mother it’s something I just got to do!”
That little boy face was full of tears
His little heart grew big because he cared
He grabbed both of his mother’s hand and tightly grasped them leading her into prayer
After the short and quick prayer, “Mom I was just told to share.”
He had ten dollars from his allowances that he saved for weeks
His mother didn’t know what to say, she couldn’t even speak
Immediately he rushed in the shoe store and asked the clerk how much was that one black wing tip shoe
The clerk had a big smile and said it was thirty-two
Every customer and fellow employee gave money to make the little boy prayer come true
Instead of thirty-two dollars he now had sixty four
He quickly grabbed the shoe box and ran out the door
The little boy shook the old man out of his sleep and gave him the box
When the old man woke up his eyes was full of tears and he was shocked
Big crocodile tears rolled down his face
He grabbed the little boy and gave him the tightest embrace
The old man yelled, “This is the best gift yet!”
Some say the old man got up and danced until the sun set
Mark 12:30-31 (NIV) Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength.’[a] 31 The second is this: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’[b] There is no commandment greater than these.”
Copyright © Jeffrey Lee | Year Posted 2016