Archives for posts with tag: father and son

Ward-Door
Here at Home
by Dylan Ward

Take care, my precious son
Days blend together
In a different reality
Green colors our landscape again
Spring afternoons warm your carefree heart
The edge of the yard, woods beyond
Where your soul soars
Where your imagination runs wild and free

I see you
Fingers search for the center of the earth
You marvel at crawling critters
You wonder at the heavens in dappled sunlight
Rays of light to light your light
Your laughter is a treasure to behold

Ghost handprints upon the front door’s glass
Small affirmations of your presence
Small attests of childhood in a weary world

Happiness emits from your orange-peel smile
Cookies crumble in the corners of your mouth
Milk coats your upper lip in a mustache
Your joy makes my heart full

Be sad for lost soccer practices
Be sad for missing swim lessons
Cry for your friends at school
Cry for a time that makes little sense
Your sadness makes my heart ache

Here at home, I welcome you
When sun rises, when sun fades
Here at home, you are safe
Here at home, you are loved
I hold you in my arms
My precious son

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: I don’t write much poetry. But these are strange times. This began as an essay that took on the form of a poem. My son has expressed a whirlwind of emotions over these days and weeks. This was my way of expressing our grief and joy. And it’s a small way to remember my son and his altered childhood during our shelter.

Ward

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Dylan Ward lives and writes various things in North Carolina. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in One Person’s Trash, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Split Rock Review, and elsewhere. He contributes as a reader for Flash Fiction Magazine. When not writing, he’s usually reading something with a strong cup of coffee, pondering the mysteries of the world, or dreaming of writing. You can find him online at dylanwardwriter.com and on Twitter @dylanwardwriter.

rawlins
Generation Hat
by Mark Rawlins

“You’re not going out wearing that!”
said my son in disgust at my black trilby hat.
“But it’s cool,” I protest, “and stylish and neat,
and heads will turn as I walk down the street.
It makes me look cool, it makes me look flash,
and I wore one like this when I first saw The Clash.”
“The 80s are over,” he said with a glare,
“you’re past it and old, and you’ve lost all your hair.
Someone might see you, one of the crew,
and then they’ll all know I’ve got a sad dad like you.”
So my hat gathers dust on the top shelf,
and it only gets worn when I’m by myself
in front of the mirror, when I realise the truth …
It takes more than a hat to go back to your youth.

PHOTO: The author ranting in a hat, Write Out Loud Sale 2013.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: This poem was written during a workshop at Macclesfield Writers’ Group, where the stimulus was “an item of clothing.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Mark Rawlins is a grumpy old git who is currently undergoing his third mid-life crisis. He writes and performs poetry in order to vent his anger and frustrations. He has performed his rhyming rants at poetry slams, open mic events, and anywhere else where they’ll let him, across the North West of England and beyond.