Father

Poem By Rod Mendieta

He gave me life and hope
And from a helpless sapling,
Fed me to maturity;
Brought me up to be
The proud tiller
Of my own mind;
Taught me the virtue
Of self-sacrifice
And the subdued pride
Of putting heart and mind
To the task of
Singing a jovial song
Decently enough,
But I never thanked him enough
For all that.

Will you all now
Pass stern judgement
From your high moral benches
And declare it the pinnacle
Of wishful-thinking,
A folly indulged only
By guilt-ridden minds,
To hope that my muted apology
Will reach his ears
Across the abysses of space?

Comments about Father

Brought me up to be The proud tiller Of my own mind; .................................................tiller, here, could mean either....1-one who tills/cultivates, OR , , , ,2-a mechanism for steering (a boat usually) Will reach his ears Across the abysses of space? ..................i don't know enough about space to say abyss or abysses; perhaps either would be correct. I, Bri, who sits on the highest of moral benches, find nothing wrong with your wishful-thinking. if it makes you feel better about your CALLOUS DISREGARD for your fathers feelings while he was alive, i applaud you. good luck.. this is not the first PH poem i've read on the same subject: a person's regret that she/he did not show (in words at least) enough 'thanks' to a person while he/she was alive. another way would be to do 'good works' in the name of the departed. i could use a few thousand dollars next week; i think it would make your father happy if you could send it....................ASAP. Thanks, in advance! to MyPoemList. bri ;) six thousand ought to be enough; U.S. dollars please.


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