Flipping through pictures,
I’ll find your car, the dog, and
sometimes the kids, but
where am I? You photograph
what you are afraid
to lose–our memories are
absent. As absent
as we are from your cellphone.
You make excuses–
“I’m a private person,” and
my memory is
“excellent.” Yet you
never considered what I
might like. For me, I
will need those chubby pictures,
the teenage eye-rolls,
the pictures of when
we loved, and hated each other–
to reassure my
failing memory .
I am not perfect like you
and I do not know it all.
I take pictures of
what I’m afraid of losing.
I smile when I’m sad.
Every picture has
a story to tell.
It’s a bit early, but enjoy. Might be another. – Lynne 🙂
On Father’s Day,
I am writing this poem for you.
Some say you are not my Father.
But you are the only “Father” I knew.
Simply calling you “Grandpa” will not do.
What makes my Father so special
is the man he lived to be–
he had so much love in his heart
for his wife and family
and I’m thankful for what he’s taught me.
And the memories…
I remember your hand
reaching out to grab mine
giving it a squeeze
comforting any anxiety
I had in my mind.
Your easy-going smile
put my heart at ease.
The songs you made up (although funny)
they drove me crazy!!
But you loved to tease.
You took me places
and you told me tall tails–“The Genies.”
Always your side-kick,
when we visited Aunt Ruth, or your friends.
You never failed me–
you held me up when I was weak.
I knew I could count on you for everything–
you wouldn’t put up with bullies across the street!
My faithful companion–
We watched cartoons and played games.
You were down for whatever I wanted to do.
I thought, “I have the best Dad in the world!”
You never, ever complained.
You helped me with math.
And I gave you a hard time.
I should have listened, but I was a little girl–
I thought I knew everything.
Like my daughter does sometimes.
They don’t make men
like you anymore, Dad.
I’m trying so hard to raise my children
to have the kind of family we had.
Things are not the same, and it is sad.
They say it’s different for me
since I was raised by my grandad
that Dad’s don’t do what you did for me
children don’t have the childhood I had.
But I was happy, you did everything with me.
I thought that is what being a good Dad was about?
“A poet is an unhappy being whose heart is torn by secret sufferings, but whose lips are so strangely formed that when the sighs and the cries escape them, they sound like beautiful music… and then people crowd about the poet and say to him: “Sing for us soon again;” that is as much as to say, “May new sufferings torment your soul.” ~Søren Kierkegaard
Something about this quote I like. In this quote, I compare the poet to a caged song bird, who sings a sad, tortured melody, and everyone loves it because it is a melody they haven’t heard before. It is so beautiful it is eerie. They want the bird to keep singing no matter how sad and tormented he is knowing he may never be free. He sings for a crowd that may never understand him or his heart’s desires. Even if the bird was free, what would he do with his freedom? Hence, new sufferings.
The stars shining bright–
I wish I could pull them all down.
To see you, again.
The heavens rest peacefully
atop the clouds–
with you gazing down
from the moon.
You whisper to me
in my dreams as
tears roll down my cheeks
“Don’t you dare be sad!
I traded the pain for a halo
and some angel wings!”