The writing gene(s).
My Father and I
Share a passion for words
He writes about nature
While I write a mix of stuff
His love for writing
Inspired me to write as well
Love to have a poetic Dad
With such a creative mind
My inspiration & role model
I may have his writin’ DNA
Am so glad to have him as
My Dad And I
I have written four children's books
in my lifetime.
But my father doesn't know.
He died in 2006,
I didn't know he was about to go.
He loved me unconditionally,
that I cherish for life.
He said he would walk the aisle with me
when I married my only wife.
He taught me things he knew I would need in age
He taught me how to handle myself when I felt the rage.
I didn't know how important he was until he wasn't there.
I never really had the chance to show him that I cared.
Now that I'm older all I hear is
"Girl, you look just like your dad."
It bothers me a lot at first, but now I'm sorta glad.
So, I love you dad, and miss you,
thanks for letting me rise.
I will make sure I dedicate to you,
my first Nobel Peace Prize.
It’s Never Too Late
I used to love Dad, like more than ice cream, or life itself. We'd play and play and play all day.
Then he became a controlling chauvinist, and we did nothing to stop the metamorphosis. My mum was especially powerless to stop a raging egotistical maniac. He was gruelling, having meted harsh discipline to his boys at school. But when you're defined by what you do for a living, it's not easy to transcend.
Granted, we were entirely cocooned in our own insecurities to know better.
One day he came at me with a chair, and I left the house. I didn't run away, but that love that was fast eroding crossed the threshold into hate.
Dad probably never stopped loving me, just like when I was fresh out of the oven. He'd never stop, like I never will with my boy.
Dad remains just another man in my life, although I wished it could be different. But to dredge up the past is to tear open old wounds and I'm not brave enough.
I haven't lived my life following principles that preceded the well-being of my family.
I'll never know why Dad did what he did, but I had an inkling.
I'll never understand what drove him, but I appreciate it could've been worse.
I see him in me at times.
I still cherish the values he instilled.
I use him as a reflection, a compass that points true South that I may always walk the opposite path.
I still love him.
I hope he knows.
Maybe one day, we'll tear down the barbed wires, spend more time watching his grandchildren grow up, on our back verandah, drinking beer, eating peanuts.
It's not too late, right?
dad, you gave me a gift. the gift to walk out of people's lives, never looking back.
if it weren't for you i would've stayed with him, i would've called her back.
my heart would've made its way into their hands, and they would've squeezed, pulped the burden and the joy from my chest until i was no more than a body of broken bones.
i would've been happy, but only for a while. in the end it's passion that kills us.
dad, you saved my life.
I know he did better than his dad
But am I still entitled
To my pain?
He never hit me
So I guess
He was a pretty good dad
When I called him Daddy
And he called me Sport
He was my hero
I rode with him in his great big truck
Held his hand in the hardware store
Wondering at those big flat pencils
Inhaling the manly scent of lumber
Most of my early memories
Were of absence or apprehension
Dad's almost home"
Dad didn't want the noise
After long, hard days
Of providing for us
I hid in my room
Afraid of upsetting him
While he hid
In front of the television
Keeping inside as much as I could
Knowing without being told
That if he saw me cry
He'd be disgusted
Because I was too old for that
He never said aloud
He hated sensitivity
But kids always
I tried to please him
When he put me to work
In the heat of a summer afternoon
I wilted in the pounding sun
He could never get too much sun
But I was pouring sweat
And swallowing back vomit
He hated sensitivity
And the contempt on his face
When I had to quit lest I pass out
Made me hate myself
Layer by layer
I hid myself
Swallowed all of the ways
I was not
What he'd wanted
I bit my tongue
When he rattled off coarse jokes
About people of different colours
Or spouted insulting jeers
About homeless people
Or bleeding heart liberals
My tongue didn't stay between my teeth
Despite all the times he'd said
"Don't ever _____
Or I'll disown you"
I had to break free
Say what I felt
What I believed
Who I was
I wasn't his Sport anymore
And even after decades
I still agonize between
Honesty and avoiding a fight
Still I wish sometimes
We could just be silent
Ride in his truck to the hardware store
Inhale the potent scent of lumber
And pretend everything's okay
But he never hit me
Or kicked me out
And deep down I know
His bluster and contempt
Were always rooted in fear
I am unafraid
So I guess I will count
Memories of a Man I Knew
Challenge: Write about your relationship with your father, whatever it might be.
My father showed up regularly. He loved me then.
My father showed up less. He knew the only way he could hurt my mother was by hurting me. She had broken the crimson cushion beneath his breast, and now it was his turn to break mine.
I had been awarded student of the month. Excitement poured from my beaming body as I saw my mother, grandmother, and aunt enter the building just moments before the ceremony.
I was showered with hugs, kisses, and gifts. I had been holding onto my mother when I saw him; a man that looked vaguely familiar. I struggled to guess who he was as he approached with flowers in hand. I turned to my mother and asked her, "mommy, is that my dad?"
She forced a smile upon her full lips and said, "yes!"
I smiled brightly and hugged him tightly. It's funny how children love their parents no matter how unfamiliar they are with them.
I had been hit by a car on my way from the ice cream truck. I laid in a hospital bed with my mom looking over me. My father had come, but he wasn't actually there. His eyes were on his watch.
"Daddy," I said. "If you have somewhere to be, you can go. It's okay."
And with that, he was gone.
I was seeing my father more regularly; he'd show up about three times a year at least. I felt like this could be it; this could be the beginning of him and I forming a beautiful relationship.
My father had gotten a divorce and only told me once he had gotten a new girlfriend. He took me on what he called a "family trip." He was acting as if he had been there; as if he had co-parented with my mother for fourteen years and helped raise me.
I decided to talk to him. It was late, and I could not sleep with it on my mind. I climbed down the stairs and went into his room. The conversation didn't go well and ended with me running out in tears. I went into the bathroom instead of into the guest room with the fear that he would come after me to continue the conversation. When he never did came for me, I was, ironically, more hurt.
I cried over him from time to time.
I hated him from time to time.
I did not think of him much.
"Dad, I just want to have a good relationship with you. You know?"
There is a long silence before he says, "well, what's stopping you?" He's smiling. He truly didn't get it, and could I blame him? He never had a father, but is that an excuse? I am not sure. I am just silent.
He tells me that he is proud of me; proud that I finished high school. For some reason this makes me smile.
I ask for his help. He is better off than my mother, and I wanted to go to college. He tells me he'll try, but he's not sure if he can. I tell him anything will help.
I get a scholarship, but I do not tell him. I want to see if he would help. I want to see what he would do. I tell him the deadline. I tell him that I may be kicked out of the university if I do not pay by this time.
The deadline passes.
He never calls; not to say he couldn't help out, not to see if I was okay.
I decide that I am done.
I will not try. I do not care or maybe I do; I am just to exhusted to even notice.
Hell Will be his Home
Remembering my life more than 10 years ago is hard
My father beat me, my father abused me
He got me addicted to substance, he made me lose taste in certain foods.
He never taught me to defend myself
He never taught me how to love.
At 6 he left.
He was gone, nowhere to be found.
2 years ago my mom ran into him at the store
He gave her his phone number and I saw it.
I wrote it down, put it in my phone, and tried to call.
I clicked the call button, waited a second, and hung up.
I couldnt call him, the one who donated sperm for my existance.
The man who made me feel worthless before anyone else could have the chance.
The man who punched my moms stomach while I was in it.
The man who wanted me gone.
Fathers day 2015 came along, I said fuck it.
We drove to the apartment he lives in.
I knocked on the door.
I heard him lock the door.
He locked the door on his own fucking son.
I wanted to say hi, but after I heard that I gave up.
I got a job at this restaurant, McAlisters.
He worked there but I didnt know he did.
I didnt recognize him, he didnt recognize me.
But then it hit me after a manager asked me about him.
I texted him, I asked why he did this to me.
Why he was such a shit father.
Why he left.
Why he beat me.
Why he got me addicted.
Why he tortured me.
Why he was who he was.
I got one single answer.
"What are you talking about?"
I encountered him at work.
He still didnt know who I was.
I quit my job that day.
"Manny?" I said
"Yeah?" he responded
"Its your son, im your son. Fuck you. Go to Hell."
And like a boss, I walked out.
Havent talked to him since
But I fear one day I might be like him
But nothing could be worse than that piece of shit.
The smell of you-
like pipe tobacco and budget cologne.
Sitting quietly most of the time.
(only you can call me that)
"Come here, girl."
I was nine years old.
And, you would-
play me the new song you wrote; tell me a story; postulate, preach, philosophize.
Or, we would sit by the creek, trying to catch a fish.
But, really, just sitting
When I was with you- I didn't have to wear shoes;
or, say I believed in things I DO NOT,
or, wear dresses
or, pretend that I wasn't smart.
Then- you smelled like alcohol.
You sobbed, ranted, raved-
pacing back and forth
falling on the ground.
I was only twelve years old-
trying to: hide your pistols, cook for you, clean, to be strong, to be an adult.
I wanted to save you,
but I could not.
I have tried to save everyone since then.
I was fourteen when you gave up;
I was on my own.
Now, I don't know what you smell like.
I am thirty-four.
We do not know each other's lives.
We have become triggers to each other-
to memories of a past we both wish we could forget.
Still, sometimes, when I am really sad, I dail your phone.
Through tears I say,
"I love you, Daddy."
You ask what is wrong,
but I NEVER tell you!
The Butcher’s Block
It was the coldest,
most golden day.
Frozen hell fire
My heart turning,
floating in a glass bowl,
exposed to the elements.
It was a beautiful day.
The sun ignited
the way it would
through glass block.
My dad was ashes,
heavier than I expected,
in a plastic box
inside of a bag.
My cheeks fiery
in frozen wind,
burnt by autumnal pyres
with the gall
to invade me raw,
Leaving bright specks
across my vision.
Fall came late
and left me brittle,
ready to be a mote
Pining for empty,
to break up
the roads were empty,
the messy misfires
of my neurons.
I was ugly,
shredded with saws.
My father had his
leg cut off
and couldn't recover.
We are just
meat to be chopped
on the butcher's block,
I have learned forgiveness.
At the end, it was me
who had the butcher's knife,
the power to sever,
to coat my apron
but I am dressed in white
and I am clean.