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Noah Counts
Noah Counts
I hear the guitar strumming and his soft and mellow voice.
My Uncle Red knew many songs and gave us each a choice.
His summer visits made me smile. He brought with him pure joy.
He pulled his pranks and sang his songs for every girl and boy.
He was my first art critic and sometimes I'd near burst
With rage at his snide comments, but he left me with a thirst
To make my drawings better and to live up to his creed.
His caustic criticisms were a ploy so I'd succeed.
I loved him with the fiercest love a child can love her kin.
I love him still as much or more than I ever loved him then.
His Gibson now is idle. There's an injury to his hand.
But I can ever hear it in the late night summer wind.
And though we don't meet often since we live so far apart,
I hope he knows that he's alive inside this loving heart.
How could I for one moment forget the one who gave
A ragged child her vision for the future that she craved?
To isolated backwoods he brought a dream to me.
He's my mentor and my critic and beloved he'll always be.
A nice tribute! Hope you sent him a copy.
I love this poem! What a story it tells!