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My Father the Poet
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For Print Alas my father is a poet!
I wish he was a painter instead
for paintings tend to draw admirers
while verses usually fill them with dread
It’s both comical and heart wrenching
when in a gathering father whips out his prose
and guests dive out through windows
if there happens to be a stampede at the doors
I can’t say I blame them
for I too am victim of rhyme
suffering father’s prolific verse
accompanied by pantomime
I know it hurts his pride
“boors! philistines!” he rumbles
unable to take rejection in his stride
for weeks at end he grumbles
If only my father made paintings
instead of birthing verses deep
there is little need for a wordsmith
in a world where words are cheap
