Throughout my writings, Iíve let my life unfold.
If I had a problem, in my writings they would show.
Many of poems written, too many to name,
Of those he never knew or heard.
Till the day my first poem was published.
This made him so proud.
My grandfather was a subject,
Many of times, be it good or bad.
Whether it was to tell of his talks,
That seemed never ending.
Or of his jokes only funny to him.
All that he did I would write.
No matter the words,
The world could see I loved him so.
Though in the end he started to fade,
No longer that man I remember.
In my memory though he never changed.
He was still that all around good guy,
Willing to help any way he could.
We just lost him and shock ran deep.
For no one knew he slipped so fast.
No more can I write of all that he did.
I canít retell more than once.
It all started with the first time,
He ever saw my work.
Now itís over with his last poem.
The final way to let him go.
How you will be missed.
None of us was ready though,
We knew you were called home.
Your memory will never be forgotten.
Our love for you did not lessen.
We just have to say good bye.
So in your final poem,
Are the final words to you.
You are loved and will be missed.
But we shall celebrate all that you were.