Gentle man

Gentle man

Learned well in the ways of his Father

Dependable man

Intruding into my despair

Yet can take “no” for an answer—

Frightening thought.

He walked ahead of his beloved,

Gave her a rose—

Thorns gone: he himself had taken them off.

Generously open and red.   

And opened the door for her.

To my Momma, on her Birthday

What will I ever know of what you are—

What in you gave up nights of rest,

What you saw about me

So worth giving up

the better for you

for the best for me?

Leisure time scratched out by

A trip to the park,

Prestige in the ER,

To be my doctor,

To write love with a feather-stroke touch

on a bruised head,
                raw knees, 

a thousand bee-stings, 

and a stabbed back.

 A chance for a manicure, a new dress,

Traded in for candy bars and toy horses,

A night at the movies

For a theatrical production of

Polly Pockets and Playdough.

When I boarded the plane for college—

A smile for me

Instead of the tears that would make me stay.

I think I recall

that you said once or so,

“I’m not beautiful,

It’s you that shines”—

I must wonder how anyone

Other than a swan

Could give the world a cygnet like me,

As you say that you have.

[This is a post long over-due. My apologies, readers. Summer pulled me along willy-nilly, and I've barely done anything on my computer other than briefly checking emails and Facebook. But I am back.]

Commission

I am commissioned to paint a portrait of an artist,

A prince among men.

I would first sketch out the proportions,

the lighting

And try as I may,

every angle—such a puzzle for copying!

Shading, so delicate, too,

To balance the lights and darks so well

As he can—

It’s hard.

Drawing up the lines of his life as he did

Measure,

measure

line—

Steadier hands than mine

Should copy down the works of his hands,

Strength under control.

Oh, how clear my mind’s eye sees

The castles he architected—

Trifles, to him

But stretching to the sky to me.

It’s done.

I present it—

“Look what I made, Daddy.”

Taking it with a broad sweep of a smile,

He places it on his special shelf—

The one just for his little girl’s gifts.

{I wrote this poem for my Daddy's birthday, which is in February. His careless, procrastinating daughter, however, did not get his cards sent in the mail until earlier this week. He got them today, so now I can post it here for you to read about my darling Daddy without spoiling his surprise.}