Dad hid behind his cigarette,
his golf clubs ready,
his burly arms flexed to tee off,
his day planned for him,
a big dinner
and then his cross-handed grip struck the Top Flight
far down across the creek,
his son proud
watching his dad's power,
wondering if he'd ever hit the ball that far.
The day was short. the thoughts were long.
my pen hand ready.
my creased fingers jerked to move.
my time slipping away.
bright sunny days.
and the moment flew on to the next way along ahead.
no notice or turning of head.
moments and time stepping on.
We always remember our dads in a certain way - like something that they do best; or sometimes the things they said. It's a wonder how children can remember everything.
Dear readers, this is my third book of poems, and inside are a special collection of what have turned out to be not only MY personal favorites, but also the favorites of many of YOU. Some of these have never been available in print before...
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my pen hand ready.
my creased fingers jerked to move.
my time slipping away.
bright sunny days.
and the moment flew on to the next way along ahead.
no notice or turning of head.
moments and time stepping on.
(((HUGS))) and love, Karla.
Beautiful write!
Sandie Angel :o)