Timothy Gega
10-17-2014, 06:58 AM
Dear Old Dad ~ (Closure)<o:p></o:p>
<o:p> </o:p>
This is the story about my dear old dad. <o:p></o:p>
He was my fatherly-mother and quite often he was called a cad.<o:p></o:p>
He got us by just fine and all alone and he did the best he could <o:p></o:p>
just with what he had.<o:p></o:p>
<o:p> </o:p>
My dad sat around the house in his t-shirt and underwear.<o:p></o:p>
And quite frankly, we didn’t even seem to care.<o:p></o:p>
In his day they didn’t have such proper clothing etiquettes.<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
He was a wounded maritime sailor after surviving many great storms out at sea.<o:p></o:p>
But the hardest shipwreck he’d ever faced was back at home on this rocky shore<o:p></o:p>
of domestic tranquility.<o:p></o:p>
<o:p> </o:p>
Working alone since his youth inside Poseidon’s grave yard, <o:p></o:p>
crashing among shoals often left scars.<o:p></o:p>
Then running aground like this at home must have been very hard.<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
He was a real God-fearing man but in this new domestic life now <o:p></o:p>
it was never written in God’s Plan, that:
Parenting skills was obviously missing somehow.<o:p></o:p>
<o:p> </o:p>
Something was lost in that old time religious psychology <o:p></o:p>
for this man’s simple rearing technology,<o:p></o:p>
when that’s all that he held so dear<o:p></o:p>
in his misled biblical-faith-based hand it is now very clear.<o:p></o:p>
<o:p> </o:p>
Spare the rod, thus spoiling the child, is the rule that he was always told <o:p></o:p>
which he ceremoniously used but he didn’t go wild or exert it too bold.<o:p></o:p>
<o:p> </o:p>
His own youth was robbed by the war and with raising us 3 kids <o:p></o:p>
but he never abused us at all as some say that he did. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p> </o:p>
He never graduated from school or had any grades on a report card<o:p></o:p>
but one doesn’t need rocket science to see that in his heart of emotions <o:p></o:p>
he was never really all that hard.<o:p></o:p>
<o:p> </o:p>
And on my birthday like a good parent he would always send me a money card <o:p></o:p>
showing me that he’d remembered and as a loving parent, he did go that extra yard.<o:p></o:p>
<o:p> </o:p>
On my 59th birthday he had died that same year. <o:p></o:p>
Think I saw him in a cloud then with his eyes full of tears.<o:p></o:p>
<o:p> </o:p>
I said, Dad, I still love you and forgave you long-long ago, <o:p></o:p>
and you’re in heaven now with the angels<o:p></o:p>
where my love is felt even more so.<o:p></o:p>
<o:p> </o:p>
This Man’s Legacy is here now of what I write, <o:p></o:p>
for this dad called mom…<o:p></o:p>
and picking up this fight….or <o:p></o:p>
Bringing light to his plight…<o:p></o:p>
<o:p> </o:p>
Now, that’s the history of which I’ve told<o:p></o:p>
To correct the stigmas that these negative seeds <o:p></o:p>
had once upon a time sowed.<o:p></o:p>
<o:p> </o:p>
This is my story, and that’s who I am, <o:p></o:p>
writing down these accounts<o:p></o:p>
for my own son to understand,<o:p></o:p>
and doing poetic justice for some<o:p></o:p>
wherever and whenever I possibly can.<o:p></o:p>
<o:p> </o:p>
Though he never threw me any footballs <o:p></o:p>
or let me take a swing with a baseball bat, <o:p></o:p>
Resting gently in my memories of him now, <o:p></o:p>
I do remove my hat.<o:p></o:p>
<o:p> </o:p>
R.I.P. Dad R.I.P.<o:p></o:p>
You did better than most with what you had.<o:p></o:p>
<o:p> </o:p>
With pencils down my work here is done.<o:p></o:p>
I write these words today for every father and son.<o:p></o:p>
<o:p> </o:p>
I love you Dad. I love you. Thank you.<o:p></o:p>
<o:p> </o:p>
May 28, 2012
Tim Gega<o:p></o:p>
<o:p> </o:p>
This is the story about my dear old dad. <o:p></o:p>
He was my fatherly-mother and quite often he was called a cad.<o:p></o:p>
He got us by just fine and all alone and he did the best he could <o:p></o:p>
just with what he had.<o:p></o:p>
<o:p> </o:p>
My dad sat around the house in his t-shirt and underwear.<o:p></o:p>
And quite frankly, we didn’t even seem to care.<o:p></o:p>
In his day they didn’t have such proper clothing etiquettes.<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
He was a wounded maritime sailor after surviving many great storms out at sea.<o:p></o:p>
But the hardest shipwreck he’d ever faced was back at home on this rocky shore<o:p></o:p>
of domestic tranquility.<o:p></o:p>
<o:p> </o:p>
Working alone since his youth inside Poseidon’s grave yard, <o:p></o:p>
crashing among shoals often left scars.<o:p></o:p>
Then running aground like this at home must have been very hard.<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
He was a real God-fearing man but in this new domestic life now <o:p></o:p>
it was never written in God’s Plan, that:
Parenting skills was obviously missing somehow.<o:p></o:p>
<o:p> </o:p>
Something was lost in that old time religious psychology <o:p></o:p>
for this man’s simple rearing technology,<o:p></o:p>
when that’s all that he held so dear<o:p></o:p>
in his misled biblical-faith-based hand it is now very clear.<o:p></o:p>
<o:p> </o:p>
Spare the rod, thus spoiling the child, is the rule that he was always told <o:p></o:p>
which he ceremoniously used but he didn’t go wild or exert it too bold.<o:p></o:p>
<o:p> </o:p>
His own youth was robbed by the war and with raising us 3 kids <o:p></o:p>
but he never abused us at all as some say that he did. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p> </o:p>
He never graduated from school or had any grades on a report card<o:p></o:p>
but one doesn’t need rocket science to see that in his heart of emotions <o:p></o:p>
he was never really all that hard.<o:p></o:p>
<o:p> </o:p>
And on my birthday like a good parent he would always send me a money card <o:p></o:p>
showing me that he’d remembered and as a loving parent, he did go that extra yard.<o:p></o:p>
<o:p> </o:p>
On my 59th birthday he had died that same year. <o:p></o:p>
Think I saw him in a cloud then with his eyes full of tears.<o:p></o:p>
<o:p> </o:p>
I said, Dad, I still love you and forgave you long-long ago, <o:p></o:p>
and you’re in heaven now with the angels<o:p></o:p>
where my love is felt even more so.<o:p></o:p>
<o:p> </o:p>
This Man’s Legacy is here now of what I write, <o:p></o:p>
for this dad called mom…<o:p></o:p>
and picking up this fight….or <o:p></o:p>
Bringing light to his plight…<o:p></o:p>
<o:p> </o:p>
Now, that’s the history of which I’ve told<o:p></o:p>
To correct the stigmas that these negative seeds <o:p></o:p>
had once upon a time sowed.<o:p></o:p>
<o:p> </o:p>
This is my story, and that’s who I am, <o:p></o:p>
writing down these accounts<o:p></o:p>
for my own son to understand,<o:p></o:p>
and doing poetic justice for some<o:p></o:p>
wherever and whenever I possibly can.<o:p></o:p>
<o:p> </o:p>
Though he never threw me any footballs <o:p></o:p>
or let me take a swing with a baseball bat, <o:p></o:p>
Resting gently in my memories of him now, <o:p></o:p>
I do remove my hat.<o:p></o:p>
<o:p> </o:p>
R.I.P. Dad R.I.P.<o:p></o:p>
You did better than most with what you had.<o:p></o:p>
<o:p> </o:p>
With pencils down my work here is done.<o:p></o:p>
I write these words today for every father and son.<o:p></o:p>
<o:p> </o:p>
I love you Dad. I love you. Thank you.<o:p></o:p>
<o:p> </o:p>
May 28, 2012
Tim Gega<o:p></o:p>