Angels at the window
i am always
getting my
feelings hurt
because they
are bigger
than me or
my hands
and i have
my grandfathers
hands
capable and daring
digits
ten
far from
zero
making
somethings
out of nothings
being a believer
these were things
he liked
and pranks
he loved them
i miss him everyday
i miss his laughter
and his football commentary
and eating t.v tray dinners
with him
and his war stories
and how
he loved my grandmother so
so
so much
he had a hat
he had a cane
he had an overcoat
and a suit for when
needed
and he fought in two wars
and cried
cried sometimes
silently
as i sat beside him
both of us looking
out into the light
shifting through
the spaces in the
leaves of the
magnolia tree
in front of the
house
where i really
grew up
he couldn’t stand
dave letterman though
the way i can’t stand
carson daly
so there was that
but
easily forgivable
for the man who
said to me once
“Ryan, you are not like other children
You are special and it will be tough
but just never forget this,
if you never forget anything in your life…
Never…
Bet…
Against…
Yourself.”
My grandfather
That is who I would like to be
when I never grow up
for growing in. ” -
(via ryanadams)
This …this is a beautiful post
and this poem from ryanadams 20 April 2008 is strong and sad
“once the fires of hell cease
cease fire
and the smoke clears
that is what i started with
those words today
i stop
looking at your face
or thinking
about your hands
i loved them
i loved your hands
hands
like if they were designed by a God
regardless
of him
an afterthought
when he made them
like a painter
slashing a definitive historical line
across a canvas
as he turned
to discuss the morning news
with an old friend
that was your hands
on
my skin
and
today the sun eats the spaces
between buildings
dogs go crazy people lightly cuss
and the colors
people wear
go thoughtless
because
we have a temperature
and everyone is
aware of their neck
chest and back
for
small patches of wet
salty pools
and
of all days
of any day
as i sit and wait
to leave
for no reason
i
imagine
your hands again
and not the faces of men
they touch now
nor
their long digits fiddling with pens
or thank you notes
or receipts
no
of them silently at your side
waiting
to dart
into the air
at a party because there is always a party
and how the ends of them will turn in
like claws on an eagle
when
you make that point
when you stress the word
so hard
it bends
then breaks
and becomes
an actual word floating
before us all
hovering in mid air
for
your mouth made it
and your hands
they
were enough to break a heart
watching them
lie still
across your side
as
you slept
in
those beautiful days
the
future
looks
so
fucked
now
”
