If my dad were alive for father’s day I would write him a poem. Knowing what life is like without him, really changes what I’d say.
I loved being your little girl.
Even when your anger spilled over from the weight of your own childhood and the pressure of being strong for all of us.
It taught me a lot, then and know, about actions, words and how to use them.
I loved being your Lady in Red.
Seeing your adoration as I stepped away from your careful eye, holding your breath a little longer knowing it would be harder to save me out in the bigger world.
It taught me how to hold on while letting go.
I loved being your overseas traveler.
When you guided me to the leaving point, stood watching me walk away ready, with a phone call, to chase away the monsters still living in my closets.
It taught me how to show up.
I loved being the daughter of yours.
Spinning around the dance floor singing every word as your tears gave way to the idea that you may no longer be the most important man in my life.
It taught me that hearts always have room for more.
I loved being the mother of your grandchildren.
As you played with wild abandon loving so fiercely your cheeks near burst with you.
It taught me we can all be healed through the unconditional love of a child.
I loved being your equal.
Strolling through the streets of my childhood heavy with the burdens of being an adult.
It taught me even superman has bad days.
I loved being a song.
For you leaving from here to wherever in your last breath.
It taught me my courage is bigger than my fear.
It’s hard to say I’ve loved being your daughter with a dead father.
Because it’s been the hardest part so far.
It’s taught me that love matters most because it’s the only thing left behind to hold on to.
I stood tall
in the truth
of the stories
my young mind
brought to life
until they branded
each one a lie
me to the solitary
of my own loneliness
I learned to weave them
closer to their sense
with finer details
less obvious holes
like a black widow
tending to webs
so finally laid
around my own
heartstrings that I too
fell absolutely certain
of their truth
but the windstorm
shook those fine
silken whispers down
to reveal the only
Knocked out in the last round battle round
my legs shake from the effort
of pulling myself up off the floor again
hitting that same brick wall
my heart built to protect what
no longer exists
longing for the breath
auto the top of fresh air
that not only skims the surface
but stirs the soul
A push up on injured shoulders blades
to stand solid upright
if only for a moment’s notice.
If fear were a child
it would lay constantly
curled on the couch
checking in all day
with the pit of the stomach
that might be nausea
nervous to ear
spinning tales of certain
vomit around the
action of moving even for breath
stranded a step away
from childhood wonder.
How can I be that I have both nothing
and so much to say at the same time .
The poem that didn’t happen.
“This is so awesome” he calls out buoyed atop a wave
the sea water warm beneath us
pushing again the waves salt licks our lips
“try to touch the bottom”
each of us disappearing
popping back up to declare victory
or try again
laughter the sound track
tossing us outside our comfort zone
to dance in new found edges.
skateboards flip on carpeted floorsmusic spun side-by-side
The mockingbird sings the songs of all the backyard birds
while chasing the brown squirrel along weathered power lines
down the pine tree branches
clear out of it’s territory.
While the feather light wings of the hummingbirds sassier her above the red tinted mason jar
nourished with sweet sweet syrup
From behind the glass stained with finger prints
I see evidence
of mother earth
with in the concrete jungle.
tiny granules beneath my toes
exfoliated the many miles walked
tiny salt filled droplets condition
the fried edges of too much concrete
my soul crashed upon by waves
as childhood returns to my weary
I went to the faucet
turned left then right
with results the same
has indeed dried
up my words.