Where Was the Love
this poem just happened to be posted on Father's Day, it is about my father but is
not a *warm glow* or huggable feeling about a beloved father:
I look at him, a balding, wrinkled old man
He looks confused and tells me he needs a plan.
He asks what time is it and where is he now?
He hasn’t got a clue and he looks to me.
So, where was the love? I don't know, let me see.
It wasn’t in that old house where we grew up.
It wasn’t in his tone that stopped us abrupt.
Where was the love when he would pull out his belt?
Not in his words when he yelled “Damn it to hell!”
What love there was vanished with our tears that fell.
Stooped over, shuffling along; his gait is slow
His pants barely fit and the back is rather low.
Who are you? He queries then asks, who am I?
Where is that man now, the one who made us flee?
And where was the love then? Where would it be?
Not when he shouted, berating each of us.
It wasn’t there when he would storm, yell and cuss.
Where was the love when he got mad and just hit?
Gone with the hurtful words that he’d fling at me.
So, where was the love? Not in that house, you see.
His hair is white, he stumbles and I catch him
And then he’ll head straight out the door on a whim.
He’s forgotten now how he’d laughed at our fear.
Any love was gone when he’d hit just for fun.
There’s plenty of pity but love? No, there is none.
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