Bio: My Grandfather's Hand
Poem By Caryl Ramsdale
One of the oldest families
Best known for their good Irish name;
Lived in this house on this land,
Grandsons planned to do the same.
Three worn, corner-chipped, porch steps
Stacked up to an aging screen door
That squeaked when I opened it,
Closed slowly as I crossed the floor.
A pull chain lit the darkness
In the small bedroom I called mine;
Where I dreamed of tomorrow,
Thought out how I'd cross finish lines.
The back yard was my sports field,
Had shade trees and low limbs to dodge;
Cement strips weeds grew between
Led from the street to this garage.
This house won't last forever
And strangers might live on this land;
But folks won't forget me
'Cause they shook my grandfather's hand.