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Poem

The gift of shapes born in a cloud
Could never make my father proud,
Or accolades of merchant‘s turn
My mother’s head toward my return,
Imagination lost on one,
But dad’s shoes worn meant dad had won.

Both parent’s dreamed of child’s success
But other’s pride spelled emptiness
For years they towed the parent’s line
Ignoring blisses grand design
Life’s meaning was vicarious
Their messed up lives beyond redress.

I do not say there was no joy
But expectations plagued the boy,
For if one won the other lost
And keeping peace had quite a cost.
Our meals at home, a tense ceasefire,
Most seasoned by both tears and ire.

My Dad was easiest to hate
He had the means to change our fate,
Mom’s sadness certainly could scare,
Seemed most on Dad, he could not share.
She viewed Dad’s livelihood as curse	
And his success just made things worse.

In truth both parents had their dreams
To see the world, an artist’s schemes,
Though Father’s dreams weren’t given voice
And raising kids derailed Mom’s choice,
Dad’s path was not his bliss at all
His family proved his downfall.

That both had lack of empathy,
In retrospect is plain to me.
And now it seems that every fight
Found justice just in being Right
Their politic’s dark history,
No plan to set the other free.

And should God care who wins at last
Their plans for children so miscast?
Shine light upon eternity
And share with all the love you see
That Spring saw grow to mighty host
That served God, Son, and Holy Ghost.

Brian Johnston
January 1, 2016

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