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Greeting Card Maker | Poem Art Generator

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There in the corner of the living room on a loveseat meant for two now only resides one there he sits, by a warm fireplace its occupant a man a man have I known only as a father and as a man, I never really knew. Sitting next to a pile of faded newspapers magazines, ages old, the tattered bed of an old tabby an old man now brooding over things, old n forlorn I can’t fathom, or can’t understand the tabby indifferent and worn. On his left in a wooden bin once used for wood now holds his favorite books, his favorite things of architecture of rooks arcane writings n forgotten lore a chest full of his ledgers journals n writings he would pour by a familiar fatherly figure written by his aged hands...his memories! A man, I once called father if not dad... A retired ww2 shipyard worker a builder and a designer architect of homes and cities. a shriner A man I never knew. I never knew him as a boy, or as a younger man only as this bitter old thing of long years of turmoil, a life I have only heard of in stories of faraway lands russian, china parts unknown. Antediluvian…. I heard stories of him being a good man a man of god, now just a bitter man an old man of hate a rage of unknown origins and reasons. I never understood or never knew, I only know this little old man sitting on a loveseat, bitter and fuming ready to fight with my mom, me or anybody... as the tabby does not understand. I grew up most of my life fearing my father fearing the wrong word that will send him to rage one wrong step will cause a cascade of anger and arguments accusations like wading through a mind field or stepping gingerly on eggs shells always fearing... father??? This was a man I was supposed to love a man who was to protect me, to love me but.. a man who never really bonded a man who would tear me down with names and braiding, beating...koff... Sorry, the world blurs a little in memory, I wipe something from the corner of my eye... ...remember being chased at a young age with a belt cut from worn leather n running for my life... fearing father the patriarch of his family, alone in that family due to an absentee brother and a lost mother... I grew up fearing father There in the corner of the living room on a loveseat meant for two but now no one resides there, by that old, cold, forgotten fireplace there where he sat, occupied by once a man a man I have never known if only by tears... as a man, I never really knew, just remembering the father I feared... the ghost of the tabby still resides... My eyes are lost in the distance, the distance of memory I feel this bitter imagery it fades into my history it fades into memory like tattered newsprint n magazines… a memory not really needed or wanted but here nevertheless like a ghost of a thorn Fearing farther… I remember... how... I remember now... ...something in my eye. a... spark would flare an outline of his heavy creased & well warn face deep in the dark... so many nights out of place...

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Fearing Father

There in the corner of the living room on a loveseat meant for two now only resides one there he sits, by a warm fireplace its occupant a man a man have I known only as a father and as a man, I never really knew. Sitting next to a pile of faded newspapers magazines, ages old, the tattered bed of an old tabby an old man now brooding over things, old n forlorn I can’t fathom, or can’t understand the tabby indifferent and worn. On his left in a wooden bin once used for wood now holds his favorite books, his favorite things of architecture of rooks arcane writings n forgotten lore a chest full of his ledgers journals n writings he would pour by a familiar fatherly figure written by his aged hands...his memories! A man, I once called father if not dad... A retired ww2 shipyard worker a builder and a designer architect of homes and cities. a shriner A man I never knew. I never knew him as a boy, or as a younger man only as this bitter old thing of long years of turmoil, a life I have only heard of in stories of faraway lands russian, china parts unknown. Antediluvian…. I heard stories of him being a good man a man of god, now just a bitter man an old man of hate a rage of unknown origins and reasons. I never understood or never knew, I only know this little old man sitting on a loveseat, bitter and fuming ready to fight with my mom, me or anybody... as the tabby does not understand. I grew up most of my life fearing my father fearing the wrong word that will send him to rage one wrong step will cause a cascade of anger and arguments accusations like wading through a mind field or stepping gingerly on eggs shells always fearing... father??? This was a man I was supposed to love a man who was to protect me, to love me but.. a man who never really bonded a man who would tear me down with names and braiding, beating...koff... Sorry, the world blurs a little in memory, I wipe something from the corner of my eye... ...remember being chased at a young age with a belt cut from worn leather n running for my life... fearing father the patriarch of his family, alone in that family due to an absentee brother and a lost mother... I grew up fearing father There in the corner of the living room on a loveseat meant for two but now no one resides there, by that old, cold, forgotten fireplace there where he sat, occupied by once a man a man I have never known if only by tears... as a man, I never really knew, just remembering the father I feared... the ghost of the tabby still resides... My eyes are lost in the distance, the distance of memory I feel this bitter imagery it fades into my history it fades into memory like tattered newsprint n magazines… a memory not really needed or wanted but here nevertheless like a ghost of a thorn Fearing farther… I remember... how... I remember now... ...something in my eye. a... spark would flare an outline of his heavy creased & well warn face deep in the dark... so many nights out of place...