IMPORTANT THINGS MY FATHER SAID

HOT! DON’T TOUCH!

Every child learns the rule,
and at least once by painful hands on
experience. So un-cool.
But yes, we came to know that hot
was extremely un-cool. I still have a scar to prove it!

DON’T TALK BACK TO YOUR MOTHER

Respect came in various lessons,
and messin’ with Ma was one learned early.
The old man went squirrelly when we dissed
his missus. He truly went nuts,
no ifs ands or buts.

BE NICE TO GIRLS

Another respect in the same regard.
Sometimes it was hard to ignore
a sassy kid sister. But our Father mister,
would forget his rule when fueled by shots
and beers. My greatest childhood fear.

I DON’T KNOW WHY I CALL YOU SONNY

He called me sonny and it was funny
when he’s follow up with this admission.
“You’re not that bright!” he’d tease
although it pleased me to know I was
what he called the “sharpest tool in his shed”

DON’T TOUCH MY TOOLS

Speaking of tools, I couldn’t get it through my head
that his tools were his trade and it made him mad
when I had used his implements.
He’d get bent out of shape and went ape
sure as I tell you. But he knew…

PUT MY TOOLS AWAY

…that I had an affinity for fixing things
just as he had all his life. So the new rule was this:
If you use it, put it where you found it!
A lesson ground into my head from the start.
It didn’t take long to take it to heart.

MEASURE TWICE, CUT ONCE

As my skills sharpened he showed me
the power of his power tools. Respect.
And when using his table saw, his bromide
was remembered with pride. Measure it twice
and cut once. Or was that…?

I DRANK TOO MUCH

Cirrhosis of the liver came with much sadness.
And regret. Too many angry tirades on payday,
always a way to display his dominance.
But the prominence of that disease did not please.
The truthful answer was it had developed into liver cancer.

I WASN’T A GOOD ROLE MODEL

Tuesday afternoon lunch with Dad was an hour
in his confessional. His lament sent pangs deep
and I’d keep quite as he said his litany of faults.
Two Walts in contemplation; a revelation in the same
name. He wasn’t as bad as he’d claim

I WAS A LOUSY HUSBAND (I MISS YOUR MOTHER)

When Mom had passed, his was the last name she called.
It galled him that at the end there was nothing he could do.
He knew he could have been more attentive, even if it meant
he had to bury his machismo deeper. He’d say, “Mom was a keeper”
But he wished he did enough to prove it.

I COULD’VE BEEN A BETTER FATHER

We never wanted for anything knowing
if we didn’t have it, we probably didn’t need it.
We had stylish clothes and kept our noses clean.
Food on the table, a roof over our heads,
warm beds… he did ok by us, he couldn’t be any better.

I’M SORRY

They say the test of a man is in knowing his limitations
and admitting when he was wrong. His apology to us
was as heartfelt as any rule or lesson he could have taught.
And by doing so, brought us to understand.
our Father was one hell of a man!

I’M DYING

Another Tuesday, he in the throes of chemo.
“How are you doing, Pop?”
“Sonny, I’m dying!” The reality slap.
“But, you know what?” he say,
“I don’t know why I call you Sonny!”

I LOVE YOU

Here was a good man with admitted faults
and a vault full of knowledge he had passed
to my five siblings and me. And when all
was said and done, he had just one more thing to say.
“I love you”. And that was the most important thing!

…and then he didn’t say anything more.
He didn’t need to.

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016

Poetic Asides April Poem-A-Day Challenge – Day #28: “Important ___________”

SIR VALIANT POET IN THE DAYS OF YORE

Medieval_Knight_by_lijinbo78
Medieval_Knight_by_lijinbo78

They did live happily ever after. It always seemed that every happily ever after starts with once upon a time. Poets with hearts of gold live the fairy tale writing without fail to assail what lives in these hearts through their rhyme. Banners unfurled, riding to rescue muses held captive in the unreachable tower of a strangled mind, to vanquish villains of verses left undone – all battles won by the surgical strokes of his pen. O’er hill and stream, though valley and dale – poets usually prevail, leaving marks on pages all their own. A rhyming jester upon his steed, his ink bleeds across his virgin page until all sage words have wreaked havoc on its pristine papyrus. It certainly could be worse, but it is his verbal scimitar that he wields with such aplomb. His heart would in all ways find the word or phrase to fill his days with verse. In a far away land, a simple man of expressive heart and gilded tongue had begun on a quest to say with that heart all that his eyes refused to see. Once upon a time…

A hero of words
searches for beauty within.
And so it begins…

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016

NaPoWriMo 2016 – Day #28: “Backward Story”