Luther Herman Tilley

revised 4/21/13 for Poetic Bloomings

Luther Sherman Tilley you were born

but liked Herman better so changed it,
still everyone called you Luther
‘cept me, you were grandpa to me.
You talked with a wuffle
cause you had no teeth
though your lips didn’t cave in as
toothless ones do.

Your Irish red hair dulled to sand

topped a face weathered by time and fights
from your hot tempered youth .
A broken nose, blinded right eye,  
relics of work accidents in the mine and mill,
could have looked harsh and unkind
but softened under your
leprechaun grin.

You carried a small knife in your pocket,

a multi-purpose affair of handiness
that cut off corns,
sliced apples into bite sized nubs
you mushed with strong gums,
daubed Vick’s down the back of your throat
to sooth a cough,
and plucked tiny splinters from tiny fingers.

You wore plaid shirts and striped pants

To Mom's and Grandma’s annoyance.
You smelled like Aqua Velva in the morning
and hard work at night.
You watched Matt Dillon and Ben Cartwright religiously
and read your Bible, cover to cover, worshipfully
And that is the picture I carry in my head.

Oh, how I wish, just once more, I could sit on your knee.