Letter to the World's Greatest Dad

Finish the Sentence Friday

This week's prompt: Dear Dad...

I'll never forget that smile

Dear Dad:

You were the best father next to God. I love you very much, and I miss you.

Many times, I don't think I'll ever be good enough for you because I put you on such a high pedestal that you're out of reach, but I shall continue chasing the ghost of "I'm proud of you" past, and carry on. Your voice still yells at me in the back of my head, "You lack discipline and focus," and you thought I didn't listen to you. Well now you know. I was listening in all those conversations about how the decisions I make today affect my tomorrow, and about how we are running out of cigarettes every time we ash (that wasn't bad advice from someone doped up on long-term morphine use). I sometimes catch myself sitting like you and I wonder if it's a biological thing or a learned behavior, and then I'm just happy I'm like you in some sense. 

May you rest in peace daddy and Happy Father's Day. Until we meet again...

Sincerely

Your better daughter

Some poetry I wrote about my dad after he passed away...

He was in radio and promotions, and his
radio name was Hammerin Hank;

He had a radio station WEIF radio,
Christian format, and he
turned down half a million for it in 1980
something just to keep God on the
airwaves. He eventually sold it
to the church for a dollar who
turned around and sold it for a
couple hundred thousand.

Daddy breathe again

let me see again

and show you when

you danced with me

I stepped on your toes

and only God knows

how much I cried

inside

the day you left me

how much I tried

to give you life

with memories

your face, your smile

your hands, your touch

your voice, your words

I need

to find my words

lost in your breath

from the day you left

gone with the wind

beneath me

if you could only breathe

I can open my wings

finally exhale

and be

And not to get anymore pathetic... 

The motive

Beethoven’s fifth,

My dad was a jarhead, leatherneck
MARINE.
In the 60's back when they were
really badass

a motive found within the satin...

Trumpets sound for you

my knight in white,

yet I cannot write

for the king is a language Latin--

dead but utilized,

philosophized and preserved on paper,

he haunts my castle still

and my pen abides by his will,
 a Shakespearean immortal,

a transparent drawbridge

aching to be a magical portal,

but the tragedy is not in the loss of a king,

a motive found within the satin,

for the princess is a queen

who keeps his empty crown

holding onto his throne

no knight will ever fill.

I am deaf to the trumpets.

All I hear is the rain

pounding on the moat,

the motive.