Tag Archives: Father

It Frustrates Me I Don’t Know How: Revolutionary Improv Blogging Free Verse

I confess.
I don’t know how.

I know how to take troubled youths
and mold them into a fun-loving, happy,
“Did you have fun?” “YEAH!” team.

I know how to take eager young minds
and show them things in nature
their parents and teachers can’t see.
To teach them the balance between all things.
To help them help the world heal.

I know how to take young men and young women
into the wilderness,
how to prepare their wood so well
that it only takes one match
to keep them warm
and cook their food.

I know how to take illiterate folk
who for decades have claimed they
can’t write,
and have them create verse and prose
so moving
they can’t believe
the words fall from their fingertips.

I know how to take senior citizens
who feel they have no value
and bring out their stories
and find their worth
and make them smile
again.

I know how to make people
laugh,
rejoice,
size the day,
observe,
be happy.

I know how to make senior citizens
and babies smile and laugh,
how to make dogs
wag their tails.

I know how to take
suburban landscapes,
dead, barren lawns,
and change them into
multi-hued gardens
of scented delight
and nourishment
and beauty.

I know how to find
ancestors long gone,
how to help others
find their roots,
how to work through
the mists and dust of centuries passed
to find themselves.

I know how to take
a stranger by the hand,
look him in the eye,
connect,
smile,
and give him hope.

I know how to observe
people,
nature,
situations,
the world
and write verse
and prose
that move people
to joy
and contemplation
and action.

I know how to stand
in front of congregations
and make them weep
with joy
because I know.

But my daughter
is dying,
because I don’t know
how to navigate
a system that does not
value any of the things
I know how to do.
A system that requires
so much paperwork
that she will be
dead
before I know
what I don’t know.

And I don’t know how
to do what I must now
do.

Watching, Helpless, My Daughter Die: Revolutionary Improv Sonnet Lament

I’m watching my daughter die.
She’s starving her body to death.
Why can’t I even cry?
Why can’t I barely draw a breath?

What brought her to this bleak abyss?
Does it really matter?
All I know is that she’d be missed;
My world would be much sadder.

So I’m putting aside my selfish ways,
my lack of focus and my pride.
I will spend my talents and days
in efforts to fix her dying insides.

Was I responsible for her ills? I now don’t care.
But I know I’ll be at fault if I just leave them there.

Unnoticed Creative Gifts: Revolutionary Blogging Poetic Lament

Days.
Weeks.
Months spent,
thinking,
dreaming,
planning
what to do for children
so they know I care.
So they feel
my love,
my devotion,
my unwavering commitment
to them.
To their happiness.
Personal things found,
bought,
created,
made with love,
like when the 1st grader
in my past
made a shiny gold
flower vase
out of sparkles
and paper
and glue paste.
I was so proud,
and she loved it
so much.
And things I do now
for my children:
Events,
furniture,
trips,
car repairs,
debt forgiveness,
as well as dinners,
poetry,
art,
flowers.
I think of them
as much as I did then,
or maybe more.
They are my flesh and blood,
sprung from my loins,
grown of my sinews.
I would give my life for them.
I have given my life for them.

And yet,
somehow,
they don’t know.
They don’t recognize
how much
I think about them;
how often
I feel for them;
how pained
and empty
and alone
I feel without them.

But my creative reaching,
my monetary stretching,
my time sacrificed giving
means,
evidently,
nothing.

And I don’t know
how to change
what they can’t
feel.

They say
they think
I don’t care.
I don’t show love.
I don’t give them
what they need.
That may be true.
They may think that.
But there has never been
a father who has tried harder,
or thought more
about
showing his children
he cared.
Because with every fiber
of my soul,
I do.