My father went from obscurity to a sort of small renown.
He worked hard as a rancher and the mayor of our town.
He met my mother at a dance in her sister’s borrowed gown–
both of them lonely visitors to a faraway strange town.
I’ve thought about it often since we laid him down.
Why didn’t I ask more questions? Why didn’t I write it down?
Many a calf he helped to birth and many a field he’s mown.
Avoided his mother if he could–long-suffering aged crone.
Not many highways traveled,nor many airwaves flown.
He died in his angry daughter’s arms–the two of them alone.
I’ve thought of it often till regrets have turned into a drone.
His eyes were always looking further over yon.
Over a ripening field of wheat or over a fresh-mowed lawn.
Working, often, until dark and up again at dawn.
A man of camaraderie and wit and brains and brawn.
He liked to tell a story and sing a rousing tune.
Stand on the porch at midnight to piss under the moon.
He gave me a turquoise ring, a baby rabbit and a coon.
Now that he’s very gone away. Now that I’m very grown,
I know my flesh is of his flesh. My bone is of his bone.
And I wish that I’d asked more questions. That we’d both been less alone.
The form of this poem is one consisting of six stanzas, the first with 6 lines and each thereafter one less line. Each line in each stanza rhymes with all the other lines in that stanza and each stanza’s rhyme is a near rhyme to the last. The name of this form is Sylvestrian Near Rhyme and since “Near” describes both the theme and form of my poem, it is also the name of the poem. And yes, I did make up the form! I’d love it if poets given to rhyming and meter would attempt the form and send me the results as comments or a link to this blog.
Update: Here is Sam Rappaz’s response to my challenge.
The Prompt: Fireside Chat—What person whom you don’t know very well in real life — it could be a blogger whose writing you enjoy, a friend you just recently made, etc. — would you like to have over for a long chat in which they tell you their life story?
lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown 
Yup. There are a few people in my family I wish I could have a long talk with now I’m old enough to hold up my end of the conversation and know what questions to ask.
LikeLiked by 1 person
I also just realized as I was writing this that I’m 3 years younger than my dad was when he died…and I still don’t feel much older than I did then.
LikeLike
🙂 I know what you mean. My dad died at 45 and I had the eerie sense at that point in my life that we were now sharing a future, mine. Odd, I know.
LikeLike
I have had that feeling also…and though I have no kids of my own, I have an overpowering sense of it when I see friends holding their grandkids.
LikeLiked by 1 person
It sounds like your father was such a fascinating and energetic person. And see what a wonderful person he created!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Ah, what a sweet comment. He was a great storyteller. We once had some of his stories on tape, but the tape died soon after he did! Judy
LikeLike
Judy, this was so heartfelt. I have often wished the same. Lots of interesting folks have been a part of our lives, and I would love to be able to sit down with them again. My dad was cut from the same vibrantly strong cloth as your father. We were always fascinated by his stories and his wit. I had hoped he would write “his story” when he retired, but he became disabled with Parkinson’s disease. Mom showed me an effort he had made to start writing some things down and it was heartbreaking. The effort was so laborious. He had lots of hilarious and poignant stories which will only last as long as our memories, and not in as vivid detail. I did record him telling some of his old favorites one time, though, by that time, he was quite ill and had lost much of his vibrance.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Pingback: Do it like there isn’t anything else to be done. | The Hempstead Man
I wish I knew him!
LikeLike
I wish I knew him, too. Better, that is.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Pingback: Becoming a Mother these days | Another Voice
Hi Judy! I finally attempted this scheme. It was fun and a great exercise for anyone wishing to improve their rhyming skills. Thank you for your efforts. Here’s my poem:
I’d love to hear your thoughts.
LikeLiked by 1 person
“And I wish that I’d asked more questions. That we’d both been less alone.” Such stirring sentiments. Why angry daughter, if I may ask? You know, my dad’s life, growing up anyway and in the service, was an open book. In his older years he wrote some love poems to a woman we didn’t know. Have a couple tapes of him and my uncle talking about memories. But my mother was a different story. When we’d ask her about her growing up years we always got the same answer. “There’s nothing good to tell.” I came to suspect in later years when I was older that she had been abused by her oldest brother who was an ornery old coot. Thanks for sharing this with me. I can certainly identify with and appreciate it.
LikeLike
That angry daughter was, I’m afraid, me. I was in love with a man I knew my father wouldn’t approve of and didn’t even give him a chance to know he existed. He might have been more accepting than I would have guessed. I was expressing my individuation angst and although the rebellion wasn’t severe, still I regret being in judgment of him. He was also a bit hard on my mom for the last 4 years of his life, when he was ill, and I resented him a bit for that. But, now that I’m older and went through some of that same crabbiness with my husband as he was ill and dying, I understand it more and can overlook the bad times to appreciate all both of them did for me and what a hand they both had in giving me a more valuable life than I would have had without them…
LikeLike