Portrait Of Father Vichenchos
Grandpa, you are above us,
Over the sofa.
And when I move,
Your eyes seem to follow..
I carry with me
That coin from Venice
You were holding,
When you died..
My heart moves,
When I look at you,
And I am five again,
In your church.
Jesus looks upon me,
And silver Saints rise
Behind the altar.
Your hand breaks the bread
And your singing somehow fills me
Like the incense you deliver..
Later, when you lift me,
It is my touch,
That sends the music of chimes
Even to the streets below.
At dinner, holding me,
You call me “baby boy, ”
And let fall a handful of coins
Upon the floor.
To make you laugh,
I scramble for them,
And your love
Washes over me,
And your faith
Fills the room,
Like the meal
We are about to receive.
From that time, there is a distance..
Yet, your calm face shines down
Like the distant star
Mariners reckon by
To take their vessels home.
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(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
James Bayard Taylor
(11 January 1825 – 19 December 1878)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
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