PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

The smell always stayed the same,

A pleasent memory of my paps

when I was younger. He'd spend hours

in the field, sweating in his worn plaid cap

grunting from the pain in his aching back. After

the sun had fallen he sat in his lazy-boy with a pipe.



He was an old man, even when I was young,

his mustache was tarnished from the smoke

of his pipe that burned eternally. His hands

were rough, his face had red splotches, he spoke

with an irritated voice. My life was changed

'cause of this man I loved so dear.



Till late one summer, he fell from his tractor,

the blades tore him apart one by one,

I never knew what it was like to miss

till I found he was gone. Where had he gone?

I looked for days to find him but he wasn't there.

So the smell of his house kept me safe.



Memories are stored in this house from my

childhood. There are the pipe burns on the chair

where he'd fall asleep, dropping the hot coal.

The books that he read stacked high in the air,

proud to be so tall. My paps was buried

under his house, so the smell is the greatest of all.