My Dad
Grew roses,
strawberries,
ferns and bamboo.
Made wooden dolls
from round-topped clothes-pegs,
drawing faces on.
Sketched for me
water-colour flowers; I remember
pink heath’s delicate bells.
When I had nightmares
sat with me into dawn,
telling stories.
At parties, played
comb-and-tissue
mouth organ;
declaimed with gestures
‘Abdul the Bulbul Emir’
or some Rabbie Burns.
Made an acrostic poem
every family birthday,
the person’s name down the side.
Laughed
sang
danced.
One of a series of verse portraits – a game which a number of bloggers started some years ago and some of us never stopped. The game is that, whenever they are written, each one has as many words as my current age.
I am counting! Am sure your Dad would like his portrait.
ReplyDeleteHyphenated words count as two. (The word counter on my software says so.)
DeleteHe sounds a remarkable man, as was mine.
ReplyDeleteMust be the week for parent poems. I like how you haven't used the pronoun 'he' - creates a kind of intimacy.
ReplyDelete