father

My Father's favorite thing

I remember one day, when I was six years old and went to my school, the teacher asked us about our favorite thing in our life, and everyone started to tell their favorite things; when my turn came, I told everyone that my favorite thing in this world was my football because I liked to play soccer with my dad after we eat. Later, in that day, when my mom picked me up, I was very excited because I wanted to play soccer with my dad that afternoon, and when he finally got to the house, we ate together with all the family and then we went out to play soccer. After a while, he asked me what have I did that day, I remembered about the question that the teacher asked us in class and I told him about it.
Then he told me: “well, that’s a pretty nice favorite thing, but mine is way too much better tan yours” then I asked him: “which is your favorite thing” and he took out his wallet and said: “It’s inside here”. And I just couldn’t believe the answer he gave me, I always have seen him taking his wallet out and grabbing a few bills to pay the stuff that we need, but I never imagined that his favorite thing in the world would be money. I didn’t know what to say so I just said to him: “Oh… ok”. After we finished playing soccer, he went inside the house and left all his things in his desk and went to the bathroom, then I enter his bedroom, looked for his wallet and found it, and when I was about to opened it, he appeared behind me and asked me: “What are you doing”, I said: “I just want to see how much money you have”, he asked me: “Why?” and then I told him: “Because I was curious that money is your favorite thing in this world, because I don´t like it that much, so I was going to see it closely to see if it has something special so I can understand the reason why you liked it so much”, then he took his wallet and opened it and he showed me a picture of my mom, my sister and me with him, it was or family, and he told me: “this is the most favorite and important thing in my life and I love them with all my heart”. Then I smiled and gave him a hug because I realized that he wasn’t talking about money, he was talking about us.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This is my first prose poem that I have uploaded to internet.

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The wise wooden bookshelf

I remember how enthusiastic he gets whenever he wants to read a book, and how his eyes open wide whenever he sees such the simple rectangular shape of the book. If I were his sense of smell, I would swear that I would like the smell of old books. If I were his sense of sight, I would affirm that I would like any shadow of any book projected on the table. He tells me with a smile on his face that he has loved books and knowledge since he was a kid. He studied and read on the roof of his house every afternoon until a faint ray of light announced the arrival of the moon and nighttime. He doesn’t like to throw out his books. Instead he keeps them on the bookshelf in order to have them protected like a pearl inside its shell. Whenever he wants to read something, he goes directly to the bookshelf, and because he knows how the books are put in order he doesn’t spend a lot of time searching. I observe his behavior when he’s near the presence of the books, and he seems to be happy in the moment he opens them. Hundreds of small letters written on white paper and elaborated drawings every second page he understands and knows as if they were very old friends. He orders his books according to their size and thickness, but he never orders them according to the color of the cover. At home and in his office, not only are his bookshelfs always full of papers, documents and books, but he also keeps CD’s there of his favorite music. He loves to show me everything he has there, as if to explain to me that if someday I want to see something about his life, I can find almost everything there I want to know. I remember him reading books in front of his bookshelf for hours, and it seemed that his only moments of distraction were when he stood up from his chair to find another book on the bookshelf. He takes care of it as if it was trunk filled with treasures, so he tries to check that every book is placed there, cleaned and organized. My father also takes care of it as if it was a time machine that transports him to the past of what he has read and that will transport him to the future of what he will learn. This wooden shell of a bookshelf will show us my father’s memories and pieces of his whole life written on paper. My father loves books.

My Hero

Folder: 
Wulfman Adventures

I thought I was alone
With no father figure
He was always there
He was there
He didn’t have to be
When I wanted to learn
He was there
When I was hurt
He was more of a man
Than he should have been
He was always caring
Always thinking of others first
Never complained

I hope someday I can
Walk in his footsteps
Because his shoes
Are too big for me to fill
For now

With loving memory,
Daddy Dub.

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Mi Jefito's Ojos

I watch you mi jefito
I watch as the sparkle fades
from once passion filled eyes...

 

I glance as your step slows
as you gasp for breath
and you stop to rest...

 

Fire and passion
once filled your eyes
your steps...

 

Strong proud Mexican man
you lived hard
you played harder...

 

I watch you mi jefito
I see your mood soften
the fire and passion not gone...

 

Pain and straining to breath
stiffness and age
taking their toll...

 

Your mind not as sharp
your step not as quick
your voice not as strong...

 

I watch you mi jefito
burning your withered face
into my memory...

 

What pain and honor
sorrow and joy
this time together...

 

Jefito y eja
Father and daughter
I watch you mi jefito...

 

Your eyes growing dimmer
that sparkle slowly fading
and I want to bow my head and cry...

 

You taught me a valuable lesson
"give flowers to the living"
I am your flower mi jefito...

 

Each day I bloom for you
every evening I bow for you
and every dawn I weep for you...

 

Mi jefito's ojos
brown and proud
filled with passion and fire...

 

I watch you mi jefito
mi jefito's ojos
looking far off...

 

Turning every so surely
towards the dance of death
the lovers ice cold grip...

 

I see you mi jefito
I will never forgot
mi jefito's ojos...

 

Copyrights 4/2011-2016 Chicahuacnecahuatl

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Written for my father, (mi jefito) Jesus J. Gonzalez a strong and proud Mexican man. {Rest In Power}

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Ashes

I am deep in the cracks where the dead men go,
where their re-fleshed bodies sway to and fro.
Where your bones found rest, I do not know.

I am wandering, searching, so lost, lost in time,
in the space between your life,
the absence of mine.
It's the smell of your ashes that I've followed here,
that sooty gray soundsmith I hold oh so dear,
that last breath you drew on a much warmer night,
that last sigh you left, growing cold in the light.

When it's time for my own more timely death,
will I lose the scent and the sound of your breath?

I am slipping and sliding through cracks all my own
where your ashes grow bright
and they pierce through my soul,
and I hear a strange noise like the grim old man reaping:
it's my mother who rips your face off the wall,
and I choke on the dust that my body is seeped in.

I am deep in the cracks where the dead men go,
where the air smells of paint, smells of liquor, fresh snow.
Where your soul found rest, I do not know.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

For Chachi.

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Daughter of Mine

Dedicated to Alexis & Ariana Bragg
---------------------------------------------

And parents
pass down from themselves
their traits
Pieces of themselves
unto their children
and their children
share a resemblance
to those who created them
Do you have my eyes?
No
Do you have my nose?
No
My hair, my ears
my height, my lips?
No
But you do have
a piece of me
In more ways
than one
you have my heart
dear daughter of mine
Fill it with love
With compassion
With forgiveness
Open it up to the world
Let them embrace you
for exactly who you are
Be strong,
but not invincible
Be careful,
but not afraid
Be brave,
but not negligent
Scream when you have to
Cry when you need to
Fall to pieces
when you feel
There's nothing
left to do
But be sure
to pick yourself up
and look into
the mirror
Breathe deeply
Find yourself again
Remember that
You are free
You are strong
You are beautiful
And most of all...

You are loved

dear daughter of mine

Feb 19 / 201

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This is a poem for two amazing twin girls!

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What I Gave Him

Folder: 
2010

I finally found someone to spend my life with

And my father has to go and stick his nose in

The middle of my business and tell me

That he doesn’t want me talking with him

And threatens to turn off the Internet

 

And he wonders why I have such an attitude

Toward any and everything he wants from me

Because I know that anytime I am talking

To any goddamned person I am going to

Hear him run his mouth

 

Because he is so afraid to lose me again

Just like he almost lost me once

And he wonders why I give him

            Such an attitude; if daggers could come

            Outta my eyes, he would be dead

 

Yea I am grateful that they didn’t let me go

To a damn assisted care facility, but damn

Does that really mean that I have to give up

            Everything that I am working so hard

            To achieve without him?

 

Does it mean that I cant have any sort of

Relationship with anyone but my family?

Does it mean that I have to give up

            Any sort of personality that I might

            Think about wanting to have?

 

~Chrystal

Written on

November 11, 2010

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This was written about my Dad and all the issues that goes with being his daughter. Being frustrated about being controlled.

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"Middle Name"

by Jeph Johnson

 

My father left me his name
sandwiched between my first and last.
Our sense of humor was the same;
a clever wit and smarter ass!

 

Occasions rose on our behalf,
no punchlines were ever missed.
Eyes either rolled or were laughing...
Many charmed while others got pissed.

 

Exaggeration was always evoked
when presenting his stories with skill.
Wet noodles stood at attention as he spoke
yet his eggshell heart volatile.

 

The pain he hid with his laughter.
I could count on one hand all his tears.
Though they all fell at once the day after
ones close to him would disappear.

 

Friends peeked out from behind every corner,
Wisdom was amazed by his youth,
and youth surprised by his performance
of stockpiling variations of truth.

 

I reflect accurate as this tribute
paints a portrait of him on this page,
but reflection, by nature, insinuates
I've looked in the mirror at my face.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

for my father Garred Johnson, circa 2001 

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