I am my father’s daughter —
quiet when it matters,
loud when it doesn’t,
loyal like a bruise that never fades.
He was a man of few words
and too many beers,
a homebody with calloused hands
who built his love from paychecks, plywood,
and patched fences.
He didn’t say much,
but he never let us go without.
We all worked with him —
held tools before toys,
learned to measure twice, cut once,
and use what we had
to make what we needed.
He handed me a hammer
like it was a promise.
Taught me how to build things
that wouldn’t fall apart.
And somehow,
that became a kind of love too.
He taught me the stillness of fishing —
how to listen for the pull,
how to wait without wanting too much.
He showed me rivers
the way some fathers show their daughters cathedrals.
And when I stand near water now,
he’s the first name that echoes back.
His anger could shake the walls,
but his lessons still hold:
Don’t waste. Don’t lie.
Always bait your own hook.
I used to sit
in the passenger seat of his silence,
learning how love doesn’t always speak,
but shows up every morning
with boots on
and something heavy in its hands.
Pain eats at me with a hunger that cannot be satisfied
Darkness not even the blind would know
Still I put on my mask for others to ease there pain
Have a seat welcome to the show
I battle the cravings
Still some how wanting that sweet taste of chaos and unrest
The feeling of watching bullets fly by
While you stand still without a bullet proof vest
I try with all my might to keep my demons locked away
Remaining calm and somewhat collected
My demons bring destruction while others just play
I'm a man of few words
I keep to myself
My past is put away
On an unreachable shelf
Most have no clue
Only stories that they've heard
Mainly things that have been made up
Or changed by adding a word.
Down deep though I feel some thing
Like the fuse never went out
A desire to show others who I was
The life I was about
Keep pushing
Remind me of how it felt
I might be the Ace and eight of spades
In the final hand your dealt
As for now I'll stay quiet
Seeing with my ears and watching with my eyes
For I might be the reaper
When the time comes for you to say goodbye
He’s a man of few words when he wants to be
And his silence can rival the Sphinx,
But be spins a good yarn during therapy
With his analyst pouring the drinks.
His obsession with fishing’s a mania,
Always dying to dangle the bait.
His aversion to marriage, a phobia,
His fiancée will just have to wait.
It’s all cowboy psychiatry, mirrors and smoke
In some Freudian home on the range.
Though this good ol’ boy’s often laid out on the couch,
I don’t think he’s likely to change.
He’s obsessive compulsive habitually
In matters to which he is drawn,
And he’s down at the topless bar ritually,
Unless there’s a football game on.
He’s conflicted about schizophrenia,
Thinks anxiety’s nothing to dread.
He exhibits selective amnesia,
And he’s passive aggressive in bed.
It’s all cowboy psychiatry, cognitive bull,
And those inkblots are all kind of strange.
He’ll always deny its denial, no doubt.
I don’t think he’s likely to change.
Regardless his problems,
He’d rather be thera-pissed off, than thera-pissed on.
Blue heaven lying beneath the shapeless moon night,
Clad in grey, in boots pitch black, he stood there.
A man of few words was "he";
Aloof, widowed and bleak.
Mundane and labelled weak;
Habitual to be unseen.
Inhaling the bitter cig, addicted! he wearily grieves,
Deplorably, at his slain dreams.
Debris of fragmented blades , entombed in his veins,
the demons framing his shame , how vain!
Self-hate failed to abstain.
Bridled by his woes, he mercilessly pleads, to those that he owes,
Disdained by his colleagues, tattling, 'He reaped what he sowed!'.
Destined to be abhorred, believing,
Drained, tattered and throbbing with pain...
Until he came upon a painted lake,
Of withered souls akin, languishing, to be sane...
12-8-19
Eight Word Challenge
Emile Pinet
Words
By: Tom
8-11-2019
Haiku
A man of few words
May never convey his point;
Though thoughts weigh heavy.
He was already a man of few words
but her death left him completely silent
and bereft
as if she took to heaven with her
whatever few words he had left.
Quiet man of few words
Dreamer and free spirit
Curious and passionate
Tinkering and inventive
Creative and hardworking
Nothing came easy
Worked for everything he ever got
Lived life wholeheartedly
And mostly on his own terms
Dedicated father
Devoted husband
A full life but hardly long enough
To enjoy some last easy years
He loved to say
He were leading the good life
He earned everything he got
He planned a peaceful life
At one with the outdoors
Working the land
Reaping the fruits of labor
Aching muscles and content heart
Well earned smile
As each sun set
At the end of it all
Finally rewarded with
The peace he always wanted
Published in my 24-page photo/anthology ~A SIMPLE MAN~ 2020
AP: 3rd place 2020
Submitted for MID-JANUARY 2018 STANDARD CONTEST sponsored by BRIAN STRAND - January 13, 2018
What do you do? Fine - I'll mention other things,
In Jo"burg, the expats were bored - went to
a roundabout and drove around, disgraceful,
don't you play any sport? Not even couch-rugby?
I used to race go-karts, play tennis, chase
the girls, even in winter, oddly in autumn;
I'm a chess player, bunch of nerds, no wonder
sometimes I'm a man of few words, expletives.
And now - I travel, write homily on Koh Samui beach,
with vacant-eyed Nesbo just out of reach,
writing is a lonely job, like waiting to die,
you'll find out - no matter how far you may fly.
Nesbo had just committed another repetitive crime,
while I was still battling with endless rhyme.
A man of few words,
The pithy writer wrote
In a classic style,
Leaving so much more
For you to indulge
Your inner child;
Here's the brief story,
Journey Journal script,
My brief story
Re-jig end to start:
"Once upon a time,
Not so long ago...
Forge a brand new start,
Begin at The End;
Reverse engineer,
Embrace pain and wit."
Leon Enriquez
15 December 2017
Singapore
I crave moments with him,
Wonderful memories I long to replay.
A gaze from his beautiful hazel eyes
Pierces my subconscious,
Our lives entwined in an intricate way.
He is a man of few words,
Yet our conversations dive deep,
Into realms even I can't fully understand.
My heart recognizes
Each unspoken gesture,
Every silent word—
Like the melody of a beloved song:
So familiar,
So comforting,
So perfectly content.
Third day on her honeymoon
Sharon asks Butch what it's like
for a man before he gets married.
A bricklayer by trade,
and a man of few words,
Butch doesn’t know what to say
but he knows Sharon has always
liked to go bowling; in fact,
that’s how this odd couple met.
So he tries an analogy although
he doesn’t know it’s an analogy.
From age 12 on, Butch tells her, he
always felt like he had a bowling ball
in his pants; that was a problem.
He couldn’t find pants to fit.
When he became a man he joined
bowling leagues, three or four, and
went bowling as often as he could.
Then Butch tells Sharon he met her
and knew he had to quit bowling
having found a lane of his own.
Donal Mahoney
Hi, my name is Jerry
My close friend Lou passed away this week
He was a very avid and knowledgeable baseball guy
People were amazed when they talked baseball with Lou
He knew all about the players their stats, their strengths and weakness
He taught the fundamentals of the game when coaching all ages of kids
He had the a special talent that he could spot a kid with a special trait for baseball
Lou always had positive encouragement for his players
And you could see him give them a pat on the back for their performance
Lou saw one of his dreams come true that was a summer college league
He was a scout for Detroit Tigers and loved every minute of it
I scouting he would scope out the cream of the crop
He loved his family in his special was and was a man of few words
He helped his children to be the best
Big guy, you are now in your field of dreams
I have a request that you hit one over the moon for old Q-Ball
I will miss you and remember all the good times we had
You're a man of few words, that's what I know.
How about a conversation? Come on let's go.
Is there any chance to be friend?
I hope smile is not the end.
Whenever we've cross our eyes do meet.
You're the only one who gives me a cold feet!
Surely you know how to communicate?
Before it's time for me to abdicate.
The last move I'm going to put to action.
Is to secretly plan an abduction.
To start an interrogation.
Because you to me is a big question.
I'm tired of waiting for a sign
All throughout it is just a big sigh
All I want is a moment of interaction,
Just to fulfill my desperation.
I'm in love because of your smile.
It is also the reason why I'm about to cry.
What I'm offering is priceless,
Now, I'm loveless because of you voiceless.
A pair of shoes that walked many tests
Skipping and hurdling the hardest
Shockproof to the condition around
Halt to prepare for what tomorrow's abound
A distinctive scent of sweat for a living
Upbringing of children is not failing
Many sails and flights brought them away
A love message to sustain each longing day
Hiding tears to withstand the test of time
Strong grip of every chance is sublime
Man of few words but a cherished action
Unload your worries, now at peace with God without distraction
In my most solitary moments
I will live to the image you represent
15 June 2013
THE SANDS OF TIME
We stop-- unquestioning the expertise of our Game ranger
focused--examining sand and road for tracks
Uncomprehending, we ponder waiting for clues he may disclose –the light of dawn
Finally- three words:”Do you see?”
A revelation for him
We try to discern—revealing imprints on a dusty road
Man of few words, he speaks again: “footprints...not animal...fresh, close and recent”
Bushmen behind a thicket of shrub
Authentic and unique-nomads in the Namib Desert
“A family... hunting” he enlightens us further
We sit warm in blankets and woollen scarves
They crouch, short in stature, hiding—naked and shy
Feeling uncomfortable, inappropriately wrong somehow..
Binoculars and camera’s enforce the contrast-awkwardly
Our arrogance, whilst they are natural –reticently
Our Ranger details informative dialogue—geographical lectures
Nomadic in their habitual housing, hunting skills faultless...
Every imprint in the sand tells its own story
Many not wanting their legends uncovered
Invasion – intrusive, identities discovered
We linger no longer—luxurious Game Lodge beckons
Enjoying a breakfast we had no need to hunt for
Copyright© April 2013—Kim van Breda
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