Time Passing #poetry #writing #photography


childs viewpoint

The next generation buzzed about

one pre-adolescent squawked off-key

trying their hand at being grown up

our children even in sorrow bring us glee

stories of when they were young

little gazes adoration filled

I miss little hands in mine

I still hear a faint giggle

we are here to honor our father

how many gatherings did he watch

things will never be the same

 the family’s protective hawk

we share laughter and tears

they fledge and time passes

parents impotent to protect

the merry go rounds go faster

we sit thinking of the past

telling stories of when they were young

look behind one brief moment

his shadow all alone

*

I wish you knew him

broken people held in rough hands

maintained order

Poets United Midweek Motif is “Parenting.” We just spent the past weekend celebrating the rich life of my father-in-law who spent his life serving in international disaster relief. We knew many of the stories still it was good to hear that he was loved and respected no matter where he went. We had lots of time for reflecting on the past and parenting as the children circled our chairs.

 

 

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12 thoughts on “Time Passing #poetry #writing #photography

  1. I needed your explanation to see the honoree. Without it, I felt the swirl of emotion as a child, parent and grandparent all at once interwoven and converging. Interesting to have all the roles present at the same time, isn’t it?

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  2. So much wonderful imagery here..made me think time doesn’t fall like it does in an egg timer but rather circles like the children running around the chairs..we are perhaps a mix of those who went before, what we are, and what we hope to pass on – the last verse could almost stand alone

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  3. Sad sometimes that only when a person passes away is the richness of that person’s life really made known in such a concrete way. Your father-in-law sounds like a wonderful & giving man, and I am glad family came together to celebrate him.

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  4. __Wonderful Mooney, toughing back through memories… memories so often amplified by the smallest of artifacts; the legacy_. _m

    as I clutch
    my father’s old corn-cob
    whiffs of yesterday

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