A poem for my dad. I always felt his love in everything he did for our family and for me, even when he struggled.
What He Wasn’t
He was a writer and an artist,a passionate man,
but the times he lived in
meant tears were pushed with force
out the door so only work
had room to enter.
But that is not really true.
He loved his golf,
the game, an escape hatch,
to play, to watch — some peace
from the weight of providing
a life that hinged
on his hole in one.
Aside from work and golf,
a little time for art,
he wrote letters to family,
an art form in itself,
for few will take up the pen
to share their life in ways
that show the spirit
behind the days.
A war prisoner,
he survived then thrived,
completed college with a family
by his side;
but he never spoke
of the war, the camp,
the silence its own kind of scar,
pain drowned in bourbon
as his family grew,
his health weakened,
and still he kept on working.
Of all the things my dad was,
the thing he wasn’t
was mean…
He raised me with a gentle touch,
encouragement coated with belief,
not always present,
yet a presence always near me,
a force that said, go on,
go on, my daughter,
be brave.
Poetry by Melinda K Zarate
Read 34 times
Written on 2026-06-20 at 15:35
Tags Father Family Trauma
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