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When I look at your face I see engraved a thousand tiny lines
I see browned skin, cracked lips, eyes that rise
To meet mine and are the deep brown of a tiger stripe
And I see the deep black pupils hiding the soul I can't even imagine.

When I look at your hands I see fingers that used to rise
To lift the tools and the brush alike, to make a stripe
Against the blank canvas and I see hands that bring what you imagine
To life and, with wood and ink and lead, created lines

When I look at your feet I see the white stripe
Where the sandal strap lays, and I imagine
The pain of feet that burn inside, lines
Of fire that abate only when you rise

When I look at you I catch sight of what you must imagine
In your broad shoulders rest the world, the straight line
Of you is the simple strength that gives rise
To creation, contained within a single stripe.

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The following comments are for "Grandpa"
by Claire12


This piece reminds me of some of Maya Angelou's poetry which coming from me is high praise. There is excellent connectivity throughout the poem and the portrait you paint is endearing amd honest all at thhe same time. Great job.

On a side note, I've been trying to reach you on a matter concerning Lit.Org's publication division and my emails are returned undeliverable. If you could contact me at I would appreciate it.


( Posted by: Bartleby [Member] On: August 9, 2003 )

Makes me wanna cry for my Grandpa. Good-Job:)

( Posted by: lovesessence [Member] On: August 10, 2003 )

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