Grandpas' have knees so grandchildren can sit on them and hear stories of times past when princesses could fly on dove's wings and flowers had rain drops and no tears, and ships sailed forever to visit exotic lands.
That was then, now, grandpa's beached knees are empty...Nintendo happened.

Dedicated to George Carrol


Papa Hemingway was on those shores
kicking perhaps the same golden sands
as his Muse were whispering the words
that would give reality to a fisherman,
which never asked the seas for a favor
but allowing him that one great catch.

So, nowhere was going by the same sea
just kicking a cheeky wave all in white
trying coquettishly to get my feet wet as
it morosely on to the beach will arrive,
with a sensual murmur, that of a lover,
promising you everything on demand.

I looked away, into those green expanses,
where thousand horizons you may find
if you boat take you through the storms
and the rudder keeps firm by your hand,
wind putting wrinkles, tanning your face,
years after, a sailor with a soul of salt.

Yes, the years passed, you didn’t noticed,
one morning your mirror reflected a old man,
under your feet was the rocking seas no more,
and a mute mode was on the waves lullaby,
gnarled hands useless to throw fishing nets,
just a vague remembrance of a sailor man.

I said defiantly, once, to the mighty seas,
“I would live forever, never beached on land,”
then, all the girls were calling no more,
and the days became like my rum, very dark,
way back lost everything, then remembrances,
and the last to go, I think, will be my last laugh.