Your porch balcony/
beckoned to me o’er your street,/
and I almost sang.

Your beauty,/
b4 shrouded with nite and gray clouds o’rhead,/
shown in front of me./
I saw reality instead./

And what I thot I knew/
was seen more clearly 2 my view.

Back in the late 70’s I wrote a stanza to the Peaches & Herb song “Reunited” called “Unrequited”:
“Unrequited and it feels so bad./
Unrequited and it’s drivin’ me mad./
She’s the number one fan/
of another man./
Although my love’s excited/
it’s still unrequited yeah, yeah…”
Weirdly, those same feelings (not about the same woman!)(B’s happily married, and probably never even knew … ) have surfaced again recently, and I can’t get my old verse out of my head.

So I wrote this:

It feels pathetic/
to care unrequitedly./
Yet I still can’t stop.

My heart yer stompin’/
when you wear Klompen. Please choose/
to use other shoes.

For several reasons, my youngest children are quite mad at me for “wreaking the family”. As a result, Father’s Day has gone from a day of fun anticipation to a day of “Will they even call or remember?” Because my oldest daughter was in town last weekend for graduation, she and my youngest daughter invited me over for an early Father’s Day dinner. So, in a way, I already celebrated it. But, still, I would have liked to have heard from all of my kids on that day.
In addition, the last several days have been very emotional, with the graduation of my youngest child from high school, and the next youngest with her AAA from the Art Institute. Several of their friends have thanked their parents, their teachers, their friends — and in some cases, even me! — for the help they received. My youngest kids, however, don’t seem to share that attitude of gratitude.
As a result, much of the morning of Father’s Day was spent composing self-pitying, self-loathing, or remorseful/sorrowful haiku.

Thanks, Coach! (8.53 a.m.)
For the time I spent/
coaching, serving and helping,/
other’s kids thank me.

Hating Father’s Day (9:10 a.m.)
I feel numb. Empty./
Confused. Alone. Sad. Hated./
Hating Father’s Day.

Father’s Day Hug Myself
A previous gift,/
cinched tightly around my neck./
My Father’s Day hug.

Count Your Blessings
The father is angry./
His son is late arriving./
At least he’s with dad.
OrAt least he’s at Church.
OR
Father? Frustrated./
His kids? They’re late arriving.
At least they’re with dad.
OR At least they’re at Church.

When you don’t answer/
heart-felt questions asked from me,/
what should I then do?

A young mom I taught/
scratches her husband’s sore back./
That’s all I’d wanted.

During quiet talks,/
kids scream and pound on benches./
Are their parents deaf?

Hoping you’d again/
ask, invite, accept, forgive./
I’ll bring Taco stuff.