PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

When I was four, I could remember your stature

You seemed a mountain in my eyes

Exuding perfection

When I was seven, I remember hearing your rage

Aimed dully at the world, but focused in on me

I remember taking a quarter I’d found

Only to come home to your undiluted ire

It sat like a hot stone in my front pocket,

I told you I found it

The next day I lost it.

When I was twelve, I remember feeling hot whips of metal

Stinging with cadence as the percussion of it rang out

I never mentioned your age again

I was torn between who you were and your reflection I’d caught.

The small fractions of you that leaked out

in the moments you were there

I clung to those, thrown in and dampened

By the spirits you soaked your soul with

I was afraid of you and proud of you

Now you sit in front of me, an iceberg

You were broken, how did I not see.

The age of nineteen offers a hazy clarity,

Now you cling to me, borne against the current.

You were never a bad father, only a circumstance

Of the decisions that broke you

The alcohol did not waste you, but offered solace

Where life had taken root and spoiled

You’re still the mountain I thought you were,

Only I’ve reached your summit

The peak of what you are and what you will be

But mountains do not grow, dear father

Mountains endure.