Thursday, March 8, 2012
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Memories Of My Dad
He wasn't a hero,
Known by the world.
But a hero he was,
To his little girl.
My daddy was God,
Who knew all things.
And better than Santa,
With the gifts he'd bring.
I knew his voice,
Before I could speak.
And loved it when,
He would sing me to sleep.
He changed my diapers,
And sat up all night.
When my body was weak
And I'd put up a fight.
He'd come home late,
With not much to say.
And made us all kneel,
As he taught me to pray.
He taught me life's lessons,
Of right from wrong.
And instilled in me values,
That I might be strong.
And so through the years,
Like a hero he stood.
Working to give,
All that he could.
His presence was important,
And we loved to see him smile.
For no one in the world,
Could emulate his style.
And so dear Dad,
My best memory to recall.
Is the gift of your presence,
The greatest gift of all.
Known by the world.
But a hero he was,
To his little girl.
My daddy was God,
Who knew all things.
And better than Santa,
With the gifts he'd bring.
I knew his voice,
Before I could speak.
And loved it when,
He would sing me to sleep.
He changed my diapers,
And sat up all night.
When my body was weak
And I'd put up a fight.
He'd come home late,
With not much to say.
And made us all kneel,
As he taught me to pray.
He taught me life's lessons,
Of right from wrong.
And instilled in me values,
That I might be strong.
And so through the years,
Like a hero he stood.
Working to give,
All that he could.
His presence was important,
And we loved to see him smile.
For no one in the world,
Could emulate his style.
And so dear Dad,
My best memory to recall.
Is the gift of your presence,
The greatest gift of all.
©
Rebecca D. Cook
If You Forget Me
I want you to know
one thing.
You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.
Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.
If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.
If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.
But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine
one thing.
You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.
Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.
If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.
If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.
But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)