Poetry

I see him doing carpentry,
smoothing a piece of hard wood with a plane,
clamped on a big old vice
before cutting it, sawing it off
to the right length
and there were fire in his big blue eyes,
a burning intensity and integrity in them.
 
The smell of glue and sawn wood
tell tale from his tool shed,
with always a instrument,
sometimes a pencil, a hammer, a saw
in his big calloused hands
and a tenderness, compassion, love
in the eyes that looked at me.
 
He was a man who drew up plans
and build a big church
with his bare hands,
without charging for his labour
 
who knew the exact amount
of bricks, bags of cement,
lintels and whatever
went into a building or house
just by looking at the blueprints
and who could immediately
tell you the cost
almost to the last cent
 
and his workplace was tidy,
with everything in its place
and my grandpa was gigantic to me,
until one day
that a huge door
at a building came loose
and fell on him thundering
 
cutting his internal organs,
causing internal bleeding
and at the time
the doctors could do nothing for him
 
and he was an educated man
who swore that no child of him,
would have to be an artisan,
would have to work with his hands
like himself,
 
who wanted each and everyone
to get a proper education
at university
and have a decent job
and a great life.