The first born
of the first born
of the first born
of the first born
will always be
my baby.
#BecauseFatherhood #HappyBirthday
At her old house, post omelet, rose’d Venus stood:
Scared, caged bird nervously contemplating a chance.
As she paced back and forth across her floor of wood:
Should she venture out and fly to far-off France?
It was easy for others to advise her
on how, when and what she should do, where to go.
But she needed her loved Universe to surprise her
(like when she’d dined with Maya Angelou).
With her passport, small backpack, underwear, comfortable shoes,
she took a deep breath and launched her my way living.
Experiential, experimental, however she’d choose.
Taking, discovering, still rising, loving, giving.
At her request, this is an on-going birthday sonnet.
Because her best beat goes on! She is not done yet.
My father is a/
good man. I am grateful that/
I came to his house.
When I am old, with/
the end in sight, I hope I’m/
cool like Betty White!
On my birthday, it’s/
only appropriate to/
thank her for life’s gift.
Or
… love’s gift.
I stuck out my foot and broke her arm.
I laughed ’til she cut her face.
I watched her play ’til a shoulder
blew harshly out of its place.
I held her, gently, down
as needles tapped her spine.
She looked at me, surprised,
and winced but didn’t whine.
I sat there and listened
as she poured out what was inside.
It was my shoulder she reached for
when she broke down and cried.
But none of those childhood pains can even start
To compare to the trust lost when I broke her tender heart.
You, daughter, and I are apart
By physical distance.
By directions of the heart.
By life’s circumstance.
By twists and turns
Caused by poor choices made;
By hard lessons not learned;
By words said and unsaid.
Yet in my heart, mind and soul,
You dwell with me.
Everywhere I go,
You’re with me constantly.
No matter how far apart we may roam
In my heart you’ll always have a home.