Welcome! The
Poetry Friday roundup is here.
My dad turned 90
this week. We celebrated his birthday last Saturday night with a potluck
buffet, cake, music, and good conversation. He received a set of famous
moustaches from my sixteen-year-old, and the guys had fun posing as Charlie
Chaplin, Hulk Hogan, Salvador Dali, Magnum, P.I., and Mario. My dad wore the
Albert Einstein moustache, which seemed to suit him perfectly.
 |
When asked about
his secret to living a long and full life, my dad had a simple answer – he
credits his longevity to “being happy.” Well, he also offered a few practical
tips: share your life with a good partner, or one good friend, look after your body, leave your
worries behind when you go to sleep. But it’s my dad’s happy glow that seems to
keep him young in spirit.
My dad has always been an optimist, although he has lived through his share of struggles. He was a child of the Depression, served in War World II, and nurtured a business through many ups and downs. He has seen friends and loved ones come and go, and has managed his own health challenges. Over the years, he has taught me through example to find happiness in simple things.
Now, as I assist him in writing his memoir, I am reminded again and again of this strength
in perspective.
The poem
“Miracles” by Walt Whitman comes to mind when I think of my dad.
Miracles
|
|
by Walt Whitman
|
|
Why, who
makes much of a miracle?
As to me I
know of nothing else but miracles,
Whether I
walk the streets of Manhattan,
Or dart my
sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,
Or wade with
naked feet along the beach just in the edge of
the
water,
Or stand
under trees in the woods,
Or talk by
day with any one I love, or sleep in the bed at night
with
any one I love,
Or sit at
table at dinner with the rest,
Or look at
strangers opposite me riding in the car,
Or watch
honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer
forenoon,
Or animals
feeding in the fields,
Or birds, or
the wonderfulness of insects in the air,
Or the
wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so
quiet
and bright,
Or the
exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring;
These with
the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,
The whole
referring, yet each distinct and in its place.
To me every
hour of the light and dark is a miracle,
Every cubic
inch of space is a miracle,
Every square
yard of the surface of the earth is spread with
the
same,
Every foot
of the interior swarms with the same.
To me the sea
is a continual miracle,
The fishes
that swim—the rocks—the motion of the waves—
the
ships with men in them,
What
stranger miracles are there?
 |
|
Please leave your link below. Thank you for stopping by!
