If he hadn’t died in 1993, my father would have been 97 today. This poem is in honor of him. God bless you, Dad.
Tired eyes have seen so much.
Blowing dust that swallowed lives.
Smallpox, caravans of desperation.
California, the promised land.
Weathered hands have touched the world.
A seaman’s tunic while still a teen.
Guns and oil and diesel machines.
The sands of Iwo Jima.
Traveling feet have wandered far.
To California, to wed, to father four.
To work for bread, and so much more.
To build a life, to raise a family.
What is a life? Why do we live?
What do we accomplish?
What do we give?
Where do we start? Where does it end?
What is the peak of success?
Is it real? Or just pretend?
The old man looks back at a life lived well.
He sits on his porch and wonders why.
He sees his children, happy in their lives,
And he smiles, content.