I avoid thinking about my childhood
Unless someone asks me to tell them
Why I am the way I am
And then I’m forced to
Or I lie
And usually
When I talk about the distant past
I spend that time remembering my dad
Whose influence always finds
Its way to the surface
Of my thoughts
The quickest
He would yell when he got angry
Mutter when he knew he was wrong
And condemn
When warning me against things
That could lead to harm
But as he got older and frailer
With age and a failing heart
He also would
Own up to his yelling
Muttering
Condemning ways and speak
With genuine contrition
Until the last night I saw him alive
And I knew that he
Loved me more on that night
Than on any day
Which had preceded it
© Copyright 2014 Bill Friday
Like this:
Like Loading...
Published by Bill Friday
Beard wearer. Bicycle rider. Forklift enthusiast.
Poet. Audiobook narrator. Publisher.
My latest book arrives summer of '20.
I became a poet out of necessity when a bad case of writer's block forced me to use smaller words and write shorter sentences. I've written three full-length books of poetry under the name William S. Friday. The first two, A Death on Skunk Street and Between Love and Orgasms are published by Hostile 17 Print, a division of Silver Star Labs. My third, That Year I Died and Kept On Living Anyway will be available in June, 2018.
This space is supposed to be for stuff that doesn't end up in print. We'll see how that goes.
I live near the Pacific Ocean in Long Beach, California.
View all posts by Bill Friday
Love words that pull at the heart strings. 🙂
LikeLike
Dani,
After so many years (it’s been almost 30), that’s all that’s left… the love.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Papa Friday is up in heaven hanging out with celebrities on boats and smiling.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Julian had this up on FB. Didn’t know you wrote poetry. My Dad died 1-17-77 ad I miss him still. this was beautiful for sure.
LikeLiked by 1 person