Portrait Of Father Vichenchos Poem by Dennis Lambert

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.

From above
Jesus looks upon me,
And silver Saints rise
Behind the altar.

Your hand breaks the bread
I receive,
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.