My dad was a prince, who was painfully poor.
Creditors crept and kept knocking his door.
He hid underground, freeing coal from its seams.
My dad was a miner, a dreamer of dreams.
My dad was a singer; he played the guitar.
(When not up the bookies, or down the Casbah)
He’d jam with his cousin; they'd started a band.
They’d cut their first single, dad called it, ‘Dreamland!’
My mum was a maiden, from Mercia she hailed.
A beautiful princess, voluptuously veiled.
She laughed when they named her: a mother to be.
At last, from that sweatshop, she’d soon be set free!
My mum and dad married, their loving bore fruit.
My dad, he seemed stoic dressed up in a suit.
My mum, she seemed sassy, all wayward and wild.
Her heart though was warming with love for her child.
My dad and mum raised me like one of their own,
a peace-loving poet they wanted to clone.
A child of their dreaming who’d work and get wed,
compose them love sonnets for when they were dead.
My dad died, one summer, at age thirty-nine.
Last eyes to clap on him, I think they were mine:
the child of his dreaming, who'd started to see
his dying was making a poet of me!
My mum went on breathing when dad’s breath had fled.
She wept, like a widow, alone in her bed.
Dad’s dream, like her dreamer, to spite her, had died.
A cross now she carried: “I’m coping,” she lied.
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Author:
Blue-eyed Bolla (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: February 15th, 2021 08:23
- Comment from author about the poem: A poem for my dad, RIP
- Category: Sad
- Views: 18
- User favorite of this poem: L. B. Mek.
Offline)
Comments6
Quite wonderful. Seldom does a memoire or tribute contain such down to earth touching sentiment as you have crafted into this fine piece.
It is indeed excellent and a credit to your poetic prowess.
Many thanks, I am pleasantly surprised by your lovely feedback on my poor little rhymes. Again, many thanks for taking the time.
Your 'poor little rhymes' as you call 'em work perfectly in this instance and in the format you chose. I know I have encouraged you in the past to consider stepping outside the rhyme and I accepted your response wholeheartedly. Poetry to me - and you i am sure - is a wonderfully personal thing and how we approach it is one of our own personal freedoms which we must all respect in one another.
Really, I have read you piece again and it is exceptional and really moving...... That's the gold star any poet aims for isn't it.... to be really appreciated by someone else who is chasing gold stars too.
This was lovely made my heart sing then break a little but a lovely poem.
Many thanks, heatherbee. I appreciate your taking the time to read my poor little rhymes.
A fine write Kevin.
Thank you kindly.
A beautiful and honest tribute to your dad and mom. Well done, Kevin!
PS: Your dad must have been quite a guy!
Wonderful words Kevin may your memories of him be always filled with joy.
Andy
testimony, to wonders of inspiration's fruits, formed from heartfelt truth's: in hands of a most gifted poet..
outstandingly Brilliant!
'My dad and mum raised me like one of their own,
a peace-loving poet they wanted to clone.
A child of their dreaming who’d work and get wed,
compose them love sonnets for when they were dead.'
Thank you LB.
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