The 17th August The 17th

Raging spirit,
furious words flung at
a brick wall,
only to reverberate
in silence.

It has been seventeen years
since your light went out.
Each year there are fewer
and fewer who
knew the glow.

We never played that game of golf,
but then again,
you never were that
tossing baseballs in the side yard
type of father.

You were the type that
drew corrections to the builder's plans
for our first house and
then re-plumbed the hot water yourself
after the idiot builder put it
in the attic and it burst
taking out the ceil heat.

You made them pay for it,
but did the work yourself
to make sure it was done right.
I watched your every move and
I decided somewhere along the way
to be an engineer, but I didn't
cope with life quite well enough and
I know I disappointed you as
well as so many others along the way,
but in the end I think;
you really understood.

Here I sit flinging words
at a brick wall.

You were a provider;
you provided strength and
humor,
the amount of
love and affection you could spare,
a home and hearth and
the power of words.

You taught me to
keep flinging the words until
the walls fall down.

17 years,
I started this journey at 17.

34 years,
two times seventeen and you were gone.

51 years,
I guess going for four
won't be so bad,
as long as I keep
writing the walls down.

I still rage about
the loss of light, but
I can see that by your
own standards;
you lived carpe diem
every day.

Drink up,
live well,
love well,
die well.
This I think,
you taught me well.


Mike Carson
8-17-2009