Fathers Day

 

Happy Fathers Day I type
or say
while looking at cards and candy and ties
and feeling the same as when I look at math problems.
I know other people understand them
but it won’t crystallize,
won’t firm up enough for me to grasp.
I don’t know father…
I know was
and I know other
and I know step
but there is nothing to bring a tear up, to share.
No baseball tossing
no storytelling
no always welcome in his workshop
no special wedding dance.
Sprung from the grass or brought by a stork I thought when I was little
accepting the strangeness, my seeming oddness,
 as small ones do…
Nonsense I was abruptly told,
a speeding car removed one of the main characters
 before my words were formed.
The memories I can share and the times I do remember
are false
spoon fed to me and changeable with each novel I read,
like one of those drawings that you tilt to make the wings fly.
Happy fathers day…
I may as well type happy calculus
or happy hadron collider
or happy cryptid.
I do wonder if I have filled in a blank space?
Is there an overgrown pocket of weeds that moved in unchecked?
Was there supposed to be a fountain there?
Was there a mosaic eroded by the scraping of feet and the constant sanding of the wind.
Have I mixed in blues or purples and spackled it thickly on?
 I will never know.
So I say Happy Fathers Day
and I extend my warmest wishes 
and hope that you will understand
what I cannot.
©jayetomas2015
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About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. Not.....me. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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One Response to Fathers Day

  1. ailsacawley says:

    ❤ explains so much when you have a missing bit of your own. Like some wonderful people I'm supposed to have, but don't.

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