love songs of innocence―no. 4

soft reflections on paternal love

“Fathering is not something perfect men do,
but something that perfects the man.”―Frank Pittman

i loved my father with a special love,
as if a soldier, burnishing his boots,
were looking at a glowing from above
that penetrated life back to its roots.

he was not giv'n to suave romantic airs,
nor withering, soft-spoke words that had no spine;
tough love, whose bristles melted into cares,
poured forth as embers from his cutting wine.

his discipline was handsome as a sword,
whose tackle favoured not the wimpy heart;
yet, his embrace, rock-hard, could ill-afford
to strangle gentile spirits torn apart.

there was no humour like his tongue-in-cheek
spontaneousness to quell a brewing storm,
his laughter thick with chocolate-flavoured zeke
that swiftly jagged edges could reform.

his whistle was an end-blown alto flute
bearing the silver winds of ocean clime,
calming the babe, soothing the savage brute,
blessing pale hearts with reason and with rhyme.

© Copyright 2023 July 21
by Clyve A. Bowen♫