For his approval
I drew my father a picture of clouds.
"Clouds aren't drawn this way
let me show you how." he'd say.
I read my father a story I liked.
"You call that reading, what did I
buy you all those books for?"
I wrote my father a poem.
"That's a poem? where's the rhyme?
Read me Robert Frost anytime."
He knew it all, how clouds should be like --
faint lines, crossing the limitless blue sky,
sometimes grey, sometimes white.
He knew it, how stories should be read --
a little drama here, a little emotion there,
a happily-ever-after makes for a good end.
He knew it too, how poems should be --
rhymes in the right places, timed to the right beat
classic over contemporary, especially e.e..
I still see him hunching over my work sometimes,
his eyes scrutinizing over all the little detail
and I agonize -- can't imagine
what he'd say about these lines I just wrote.
Marked personal, so I've disabled the comments for this one. Thanks for reading, I really appreciate all of you who come by. Hope you enjoyed this playful piece. My father, and I realize I am sometimes the same way, often means well but stands a bit strongly on how he thinks certain things "should be".
