Gramp’s Victrola
By G. E. Shuman
1987
Old wooden box, but well preserved,
So finely crafted, long ago
What joy you’ve brought, how well you’ve served
All those who’ve heard your music flow.
For deep within, below your skin
The ancient mechanisms purr.
And music plays, as round you spin.
Bright notes leap from the record’s blur.
Inside your chest are scores of songs
Whose writers have returned to dust.
But still they live, when placed upon
Your spinning disk, as well they must.
I often think, as I draw near
To touch your crank, or hand-carved trim
That my dear Gramp’s hand once was here.
You help me to remember him.
In years long past, he was the one
Who wound you up and played a song.
I almost see him watch you run,
And almost hear him sing along.
You’ll always have a home with me,
Old wooden box, old memory holder.
Proudly placed where all can see,
For you were my dear Gramp’s Victrola.
By G. E. Shuman
1987
Old wooden box, but well preserved,
So finely crafted, long ago
What joy you’ve brought, how well you’ve served
All those who’ve heard your music flow.
For deep within, below your skin
The ancient mechanisms purr.
And music plays, as round you spin.
Bright notes leap from the record’s blur.
Inside your chest are scores of songs
Whose writers have returned to dust.
But still they live, when placed upon
Your spinning disk, as well they must.
I often think, as I draw near
To touch your crank, or hand-carved trim
That my dear Gramp’s hand once was here.
You help me to remember him.
In years long past, he was the one
Who wound you up and played a song.
I almost see him watch you run,
And almost hear him sing along.
You’ll always have a home with me,
Old wooden box, old memory holder.
Proudly placed where all can see,
For you were my dear Gramp’s Victrola.
1 comment:
What a treasure! I like the third stanza, because it reminds me that the first man, Adam, was created by God from the dust of earth. I like it, too, because it evokes a warm image of hearing a loved one's voice even though he is absent.
I also like the fourth stanza, because there is something tender and sentimental, for lack of a better word, about the thought of touching something where once a loved one's hand had been.
What a beautiful poem and tribute to your Gramp.
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