One Father’s Perspective On Having A Child

I had a friend who told me that he never wanted to have a child, because then he wouldn’t get to be the child. I understand that choice, but for me the situation was very different: I had been given so much, I wanted a family I could give to, only to find they gave me far more than I could ever give them.

A Country Autumn – 8

Oh, my child,
We played out on these hills
When you were just girl, and then
The season changed, and you were grown:
The life you wanted needing time
And space and countless years of work
For you to reach.

I walk this path,
And hear two younger voices, mine
And tiny yours; but know that all that grows
Is for a season only, then transforms:
In your case into all
I could have hoped.

There is, there can be
No love like
The love I have for you,
A father for his daughter:
Strong as the earth
Through the glories of changing seasons;
Constant as time,
Ever-present even though you be unaware.

Oh, my child-adult,
We played out on these hills
When you were just a girl, and I
Was closer to the start than finish line,
But you are still my joy,

And I could not be prouder

Than I am

Love Was Made For Everyone

Tell me the truth you’ve come to know,
And I will tell you mine:
That love was made for everyone,
As stars were made to shine

As sunlight on a summer day
Comes streaming from above,
So joy inhabits every heart
That gives itself to love

I tell you this, I tell you now,
That time itself is fleeting,
And what’s been said before, I think,
Is herein worth repeating:

That love is made for everyone,
The interweave that meshes —
So give yourself to what there is,
For every second’s

Precious

Her Father’s Vineyard

Within the vineyard of her honeyed youth
The red wine flows through long and draping vines;
From sharpest grape it runs to sweetest tooth,
Down where the soil and the sun combines

To bring about a type of miracle.
A marvel that she’s not thought on for years:
A thing that’s not the least satirical,
A sober thing of ancient engineers.

For light and flippant are her thoughts these days,
Of vanity and life amid the stars;
The latest trend, the hottest fashion craze,
And all the best of nightclubs and of bars —

She stops and blinks, a teardrop to conceal;
Within her father’s vineyard, life was real

.

Picture / Photo Credit : © Mikhalevich | Dreamstime.com – Vineyards. Watercolor. Photo

Charcoal

Every Saturday, her dad
Would grill in their backyard;
With charcoal hot on cinder blocks,
While she kept watch and guard.

And savory and sapid-sweet
Were those times without care;
Until the day the grill went cold,
And her dad wasn’t there.

See, no one lit those coals again,
Although she looked in vain;
In bars and underneath soft sheets
She sought that taste again.

She could not find her lost charcoal;
Her desperate search – no trace –
Till she woke in a small white room
With charcoal on her face

Good-bye

“God be with ye”
Once was said,
But that got shortened
To “goodbye”

There’s little good
About it, though;
But we use words,
So we don’t cry

But then, of course,
We do them both.
We linger, stall,
And tarry:

It’s hard to
Step away from love,
Even when
Necessary

Real, Love

(While at the hospital two years ago for the birth of our new grandson, I spoke to a father whose daughter was undergoing chemotherapy. These were his words.)

So I cannot cease,
Nor can rest,
Knowing you’re in pain –

I would do and I
Would undo
So many things now

My child: if I could
Somehow trade
Places with you here —

My heart lies open:
Why can’t I
Save you like I should?


8-22-2015