My Dad – A Father’s Day Poem

June 18, 2009 By 43 Comments

My Dad

If there was an adventurer who agreed to enlist
in search of the awesomest father to ever exist,
He’d have to hunt every record throughout every land,
from the countries with mountains to those filled with sand.
When he was all finished, he’d return empty handed,
though I would not be surprised because that’s just how I planned it.
I already knew my father was the best.
I was only putting the world to the test.

Other dads are tiny trikes.
My Daddy is a car.
Other dads are ukuleles.
My Dad is a guitar.

Other dads are just a sprint.
My Daddy is the race.
Other dads are only hairline.
My Dad is the face.

My Daddy is a rock star. He’s a regular rambling ranger;
a stupendous super hero, dismissing every drop of danger.
He taught me how to read and then he taught me how to write.
I follow his example. That’s why I am polite.
He’s fantastic and he’s fun. He’s firm but always fair.
I’ve hung with other dads, of course, but they couldn’t compare.
Sometimes we go out fishing.  Sometimes we toss a ball.
My daddy tries to make the time for us to do it all.

Other dads are cute koalas.
My Dad is a Bear.
Other dads are invitations.
My Daddy is a dare.

Other dads are only branches.
My Dad is the trunk.
Other dads are ally oops.
My Daddy’s a slam dunk.

My Dad’s a Sunday breakfast filled with each and every fixing,
spread across the table with all the flavors mixing.
Pancakes next to muffins, bananas butting berries,
bacon next to sausage, across from all the cherries.
Hot chocolate flatters waffles, eggs improve with cheese,
all alongside orange juice – that of course has just been squeezed.

Other dads are only eyes.
My Dad’s a set of shades.
Other dads are two of hearts.
My Dad’s the Ace of Spades.

Other dads have shaky knees.
My Dad is always brave.
Other dads are mushy surf.
My Dad’s the perfect wave.

My Daddy is the greatest and to this I can attest.
Other dads, I’m sure are awesome.  Mine is still the best.
While other dads are slapping fives, my Daddy tosses ten.
He tells me that he loves me.  Then he tells me so again.
If you still don’t believe me, and think your dad’s the chief,
then I’ll just sit right here and shake my head in disbelief.

Writer Dad

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The Sands of Time

May 28, 2009 By 51 Comments

The Sands of Time

The sands of TIME are always dropping.
Never slowing, never stopping.
TIME moves on, his beat unchanging.
Minutes for moments, always exchanging.

Father Time keeps everything steady.
He only cares about us, not if we’re ready.
TIME is his asset – the greatest we get.
We must discover this early and never forget.

June never knew this, at least that’s how she acted.
The character of days she routinely subtracted.
Whittling hours to minutes, then seconds to nil,
Life rolled from her grip like a boulder down hill.

June never quite got it – that TIME is a treasure,
And should only be used in appreciative measure.
June thought of her TIME as unending as water,
She lined up her minutes then led them to slaughter.

Father Time (as you know) is ancient and fair.
He is always alert and always aware.
He wants us to treasure his glorious gift,
By not living too slow, or silent or swift.

His advice is so simple. Sincerely, it’s smart:
Treat each day as your last, live it full with your heart.
But June didn’t do this. She was not even near.
June misspent her calendar, year after year.

She found herself sprinting and falling behind,
With too many things always clouding her mind.
The day of out tale June was running around.
If being early was sky, then June was the ground.

Though feeling behind and a bit overdue,
June was not feeling anything new.
June’s trademark trait, her own custom quirk,
was never quite getting her daylight to work.

So Time came out of nowhere as he’s known to do,
When his minutes get frittered to only a few.
He appeared on her lawn in an angry dark cloud.
He was walking real tall and talking real loud.

His beard was snow white, and ancient and long.
His arms looked like sticks, though quite obviously strong.
Each limb was unique; they did not share the same size,
Complimenting the chronographs ablaze in his eyes.

They were ticking round clocks with a big and small hand.
On his chest was an hour glass spilling its sand.
June’s house became flooded in a fine mist of smoke.
Time entered the room and like thunder he spoke.

“Stop where you are!” came his bellowed command.
“You’ve been mocking my first and my long second hand!
You’re treating my TIME as though merely a joke,”
The room then belched a bit with a ringlet of smoke.

“You let every one of your minutes bleed,
As if I served no other need,
Then helping your days fall off the calendar fast,
Ahead toward your future, away from your past!”

Father Time sighed and then dropped on the couch.
“I am not easily offended, or a grumpy old grouch,
But TIME is so soft. It is easy to bruise.
You must always be wary of how much you lose.

When it is gone, it will never return.
TIME sees no difference in what you earn,
Or how much money you keep in the bank.
June,” Father Time paused. “I have to be frank.”

“Every minute you use is one less than before,
And I am never permitted to offer you more.
It doesn’t matter one bit how much you might try
Or whine, or beg, or scream, or cry.

I hand it out once and then never again.
All TIME is a mixture of how and when.
How you spend it, and when you are through.
A minute’s a minute. You can’t split it in two.

You must understand that before it’s too late.
We all live the life we decide to create.”
“So, do the important, ignore the small.
There is not enough time to get to it all.

Make time for a sunrise, take a walk in the park.
Aim to go slower and bulls-eye your mark.
Television’s terrific, but books are great too.
Try singing or painting, or anything new.”

June looked at time. She stared that clock in his face,
Then said, “You’re right! I’ve been living all over the place.
I have to slow down. I understand that I do.
I can’t keep bounding about like a big kangaroo.

I’ll start to notice the small things in my days,
By doing new things and changing my ways.”
Then June got excited. Her voice jumped in pitch.
Something had shifted, inside her a switch.

“I will start to consider the things that I do.
It’s out with the old and in with the new.
I’ll go to bed early and wake up the same.
I’ll paint my picture of life in a whole different frame.

Instead of watching my seconds all circle the drain,
I’ll treat them like shelter in a torrent of rain.”
June was now jumping and pacing the ground,
Enlivened by something first lost and then found.

“I’ll play the piano and get exercise.”
Father Time had to smile at the gleam in her eyes.
“I’ll learn a new language, turn off my TV.
I’m a whole different person, Father, wait and you’ll see.”

“I don’t need to see,” he said, “I’m watching right now.”
Father Time kindly knelt, wiping sweat from her brow.
“This is a lesson that you understand.
Appreciate TIME and your life will expand.

You only get one chance. Make your life the best.
Don’t spend it all running and feeling so stressed.”
“Will I see you again?” June said as TIME started to fade.
“Not if you follow the pact that we made.

Live a life that’s momentous. You hold ME in your hand.
Treasure each moment like the last grain of sand.”

Writer Dad

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Black and White

May 11, 2009 By 106 Comments

Today is Cindy’s birthday. She is the most extraordinary woman I know and I am fortunate beyond words that she walked into my life when she did. She has given me life beyond expectation and children of unparalleled wonder. Hers is a remarkable story, one I hope she shares one day.

Here’s a single thread, nicely sewn.
Enjoy!

cool-clock-butterfly-roundThe thing about Cindy… she’s so black and white.
She knows what is wrong and she knows what is right.

All the gray matters that bounce in her brain
are pregnant to pour like a storm cloud of rain.

She’s witnessed a world from land mass to sea
for around 30 years before she met me.

Some of those years were spent solemn and sad,
though no sadder than you if you lived the life that she had.

Cindy was born to a mommy who loved her,
then faded from life with the birth of her brother.

This was at 3, that era of days
when eyes wide with wonder soak in the world’s ways.

Unfortunately her father just couldn’t quite cope,
with a a life that was fraying like a soaking wet rope

So she and her brother were gathered then dropped,
with the care of a floor that’s about to get mopped.

Both were abandoned at grandparents’ farm;
one filled with good and the other with harm.

Grandma was kind and caring and clean.
Grandpa was dirty and violent and mean.

Cindy was saddled with a long list of chores;
she milked all the cows and cleaned all the floors.

The hero of our tale was not yet quite four
when required to wander from childhood’s front door.

Unspeakable awful transpired in that place,
branding her memories that time can’t erase.

That’s where she stayed until she was five,
then retrieved by her father just kind of alive.

I’d love to report things improved from that day,
but life grew so dim she looked forward to gray.

A venomous father and step monster who stung,
filled her with secrets then cut out her tongue.

Now who would you be if that was your start?
If life battered and beat down and bruised up your heart?

If that were me, I have to confess,
I’d be an immeasurable immovable mess.

But Cindy has soul that is sterling like silver
and only gets stronger when stuff doesn’t kill her.

She turned 18 and left. She never glanced back,
looking forward instead for a life to attack.

She finished with school and started to teach,
in search of raw minds that were ready to reach.

She crossed a few continents from Asia to Europe,
her years to experience like pancakes to syrup.

Her effort was noted, her horn it was tooted;
rewarded, awarded, then she was recruited.

They brought her to Cali – that’s where she met me,
a big burning sun and a brilliant blue sea.

We felt an inferno from our very first spark -
the light of my laughter full flooding her dark.

She had the wisdom to water my seed;
the honest integrity I knew I would need.

It’s been one dozen years since we knitted our lives
and 2/3 at 8 since I made her my wife.

There is no doubt that we both have grown,
but here are some things that I’ve always known:

Cindy is soulful, her eyes would agree.
I still get the shivers when she throws them at me.

Her heels always dig in so deep for a fight
whenever she sees what she knows isn’t right.

Her belief in small children and all they can do
is unfortunately shared by a relative few.

Cindy’s unfailing faith in the poise of my pen
is a little bit humbling and little bit zen.

Two years ago I wrote nothing at all,
but during one winter, one spring and one fall

She said I should scribble. She pleaded, “JUST WRITE!”
She told me in daylight and again late at night.

She believed what I didn’t, but I did as she said.
I wrote and I wrote ‘til my fingers were red.

Now I pen paragraphs of poetry and prose.
My language in bloom like the blush of a rose.

My words (like my Cindy) are all black and white,
but between all the spaces the colors are bright.

Life is now lovely and laden with laughter.
The two of us living in our ever after.

Writer Dad

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A Mother’s Day Poem

May 7, 2009 By 67 Comments

A Mother’s Day Poem

If I set out on adventure intent to discover,
the world’s most brilliant and beautiful, beguiling mother,
I’d have to travel the world, search far and wide.
Comb every crevice, from every long side.
I’d inspect all the islands and browse all the beaches,
then follow the coastline as far as it reaches.
I’d forage the forests and climb every tree.
But the best mom I’d find is the one who made me.

Other moms are all just rivers.
My Mommy is an ocean.
Other moms stand statue still.
My Mommy stays in motion.

Other moms are only good.
My Mommy’s always great.
Other moms are only sixes.
Mine’s a seven and an eight.

A super star specimen, the cream of the crop.
In a pile of moms I’d find mine at the top.
My Mommy brought me to this world so I’m alive and breathing.
She’s helped me out with everything from tying shoes to teething.
She teaches me all of the things that I will need to know.
She sings with me, laughs with me, and watches as I grow.
We start out at the library and then head to the zoo.
My mommy always plans so many things for us to do.

Other moms are pogo sticks.
My Mommy is a car.
Other moms are tiny planets.
My Mommy is a star.

Other moms are rolling hills.
My Mommy is a mountain.
Other moms are shallow pools.
My Mommy is a fountain.

She’s a big bowl of ice cream, with nuts and a cherry,
hot caramel, whipped cream and strawberries;
bananas and sprinkles, and a striped candy straw full,
of chocolate and tiny baked pieces of waffle.
Each and every bite is so amazingly yummy,
and none of it is leaving any ache in my tummy.

Other moms are daisies.
My Mommy is a rose.
Other moms are nostrils.
My Mommy is the nose.

Other moms are waiters.
My Mommy is the cook.
Other moms are pictures.
My Mommy is the book.

My Mommy is the best around. There isn’t any doubt.
So excuse me if I take the truth and slip it in a shout.
I want to scream it loud enough so everybody hears,
my enthusiastic I’m so proud, I love you Mommy cheers.
I didn’t mean to make you sad by telling you the facts.
I hope you can just sit right down, accept them and relax.

Writer Dad

Sean Platt is a ghostwriting blogger who also tweets.

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Petals Papered Our Lives Walls

March 27, 2009 By 22 Comments

In 1980, way back when,
My parents dreamt a dream and then

They opened up a set of doors
filled with flowers, wall to floors.

I was small, my sister smaller,
the shoppe the place we both grew taller.

Bit by bit and day by day,
the seasons swept our months away.

The petals that papered our lives walls
now decorate my memory’s halls.

Now the store has closed its doors,
seeking refuge from these retail wars.

This loss has not led to inner strife,
just reflections on my early life.

Some things I simply grabbed for granted,
well I realize now that roots were planted.

Pen in hand, I’ll now be brief,
collect some closure, reap relief.

From tiny toddler to six feet, three inches,
here are lessons learned in pinches:

I learned of labor and tireless toil,
a healthy harvest needs healthy soil.

I tasted freedom – sweet for sure -
that led to self employed allure.

I kept tight tally of boons and busts,
committed to memory, the mustn’ts and musts.

Colors can contrast and still be stupendous -
the right hue and right texture together tremendous.

The life of a flower is full though it’s fleeting.
That one’s the crown jewel, so it bares repeating.

Flowers they fade, but live rather loud.
Life your one life in a way that is proud.

For most of my years, it colored my life,
filled it with beauty and brought me my wife.

The store is now gone. The memories are not.
even after sun sets, our star is still hot.

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An Ode to My Daughter

March 20, 2009 By 36 Comments

My daughter was born with winter in swing,
all done with fall and midway to spring.

Two chocolate drop eyes and a cherubic nose
just above blushing cheeks that were lit like a rose.

She rewrote our life with an edit of wonder,
took all our targets and tore them asunder.

No matter how much you know, or how much you care,
no mother or father can ever prepare

For the razor thin line that’s drawn after birth
between sacrifices needed and what they are worth.

For two and a half years, she shared with no other,
just Mommy and Daddy; no sign of a brother.

We soaked 29 months like light from the sun,
with learning and laughter and fistfuls of fun.

Then her brother was born and to our surprise,
the two of them met when she stared in his eyes.

“I love you, Max Michael,” our little girl said.
She first kissed his cheek and then patted his head.

The four of us frolicked through several new stages,
chewing our challenges and varying changes.

We opened our school and told her we’d need her
to set an example and be a good leader.

She stepped right up and shined like a star,
beaming a broadcast about how lucky we are.

Like lightning our years quickly fell from the sky.
First preschool then kinder, both flew right on by.

Now she’s in 1st grade, our sweet little lass -
caring, creative, and top of her class.

I love her smile, her humor and mind.
I love that she’s tender. I love that she’s kind.

My little Mia, like an apple and tree,
is a little bit Mommy and a little bit me.

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Questions are the New Answers

March 13, 2009 By 42 Comments

Today marks the return of Lucas. This is his fourth visit, third credited. Please enjoy.

questions not answersHi again, it’s Lucas. I’m just sitting here in class,
considering a conclusion that I didn’t want to pass.

I was diddling some doodles, on my paper with my pen
when I had a little insight that was altogether zen.

The thought was kind of large, at least larger than me,
but it shined a bit of light on the way that things should be.

You may think it silly, but I have some concern
about the way we get our answers and the way that we all learn.

The way our teachers teach us, well it’s based on an old system.
Now that times are changing, I think we should be changing with them.

The methods they use now reward all those who memorize the most.
Learn by rote, take the test and then they’re fit to boast.

But facts and figures fall to fruitless when you’re looking at your feet,
and find that they’re now bopping to a wholly different beat.

It blew in like a cyclone, this redefining shift.
We didn’t catch it quickly. Now we’ve found ourselves adrift.

You see, a system built on answers simply can not grow.
We need creative queries to bring us brand new things to know.

With the Internet inside our palm, answers lose their worth.
The techniques we use to learn deserve to have a brand new birth.

Questions have more value because they teach us how to think;
our thoughts and are behavior share an undisputed link.

Should we absorb the moment of that first shot in a war
or could there be some bigger issues that we could explore?

If we believe that answers shouldn’t come first anymore,
then we’ll develop questions that have not been thought before.

Let’s ponder this example: let’s bow our heads and think.
Take your time, take a breath. Okay, now go ahead and blink.

Let’s flip back in time a while to when Human Beings were new.
Before we had societies, in the dawn of our debut.

We were not committing answers then, with just one thing to solve.
The question we were asking was, “now, how can we evolve?”

First we worked with fire. Then we worked the land.
We had so many questions, and so much to understand.

We created language, art, religion and set Governments in place,
as the entire population spread across our planet’s face.

Now we have computers and answers oozing cheap.
It’s time for the entire race to take another giant leap.

Let’s ask ourselves about our future and discover what is next.
If we start out asking simply, we can soon grow more complex.

The next time that your teacher asks the answer to a question,
raise your hand and say “Excuse me, but I’ve got a suggestion.”

Say, “Answers were for yesterday. I’m looking toward our fate;
a future filled with such potential, I can hardly wait.

Perhaps tomorrow we’ll have a world where there isn’t any war;
no disease, hungry people, or violence any more.

If we start knowing what to ask, our future has no ceiling.
I know that I am just a kid, but listen to my feeling.”

You can be just like my teacher when I told her the word.
She said, “Lucas Bright, that is the smartest thing I’ve ever heard!”

Sean Platt is a dad, ghostwriter, and occassional potty training expert.

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An Ode to My Boy

March 6, 2009 By 44 Comments

Max he was born,
one summer morn,
the weekend of Father’s Day.

A gift given forever
to constantly treasure
in every conceivable way.

Welcomed by 3,
Mia just to my knee,
she met him with “I Love You.”

That’s pretty neat
and impossibly sweet.
I swear it’s emphatically true.

Our beautiful son,
happy ham from day one,
was congested in genuine joy.

I say minus conceit,
we were right then complete,
there with our girl and our boy.

Well, he was a riot,
compared to the quiet
of his sister’s sweet sounding coos.

He demanded his place
with tears on his face,
to settle he’d simply refuse.

Months marched along,
the year sang her song,
that final verse twisted our tune.

Our boy was so splendid,
but we were extended;
our minutes all scattered and strewn.

Before we would falter
we needed to alter;
new lives to fit our new need.

So we scheduled a forum
with happy decorum,
then wrote down a plan and agreed.

We did something cool
and opened a school
for wee-ones with wonderful wit.

The first years fly by
in the blink of an eye -
a fact we couldn’t forget.

By then Max was one,
over two feet of fun,
both mired in mischief and mirth.

If we are appraising,
well life was amazing,
better each day since his birth.

Across the next couple of years,
surrounded by peers,
our puppy progressed to a dog.

We were right – it flew fast,
but we made each minute last,
unwilling to live in a fog.

A half decade later,
he’s the constant creator
of limitless minutes of joy.

Yes, we’re attached,
but he’s truly unmatched,
my clever, congenial boy.

September is soon;
an upcoming moon.
Our school day will see two in the car.

It’s a little bit fitting
to find me admitting
that I find that idea bizarre.

My days have been filled
by the bliss that we build,
and that I shall never forget.

But I know in my heart
that we’re still at the start
and the best has not happened yet.

Writer Dad

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Happy Valentine’s Day

February 12, 2009 By 52 Comments

2339258030_d2b79eea51On a perfectly clear September day,
In a year two more than ten away,

What fortune began as a beautiful glance,
Compelled you next to take a chance,

By doing something unbelievably hard,
handing me your business card.

“I’m flattered,” I said, ”But have to be straight.
I would love to go out, though I really should wait.

Things aren’t quite finished in a situation that’s through
And I‘d like that door closed, before I start something new.”

“Life’s too short,” you said, “to spend any sad.
Call me for coffee. I’m sure you’ll be glad.”

Of course I responded though not right away.
I waited for six and then added a day,

Before sending you flowers, fragrant and white,
Beautifully bloomed and aimed to excite.

I sent no note with the flowers simply because
That wasn’t the kind of guy that I was.

But you wrote one to me, which I got in the mail.
You were doing what I’d done; you were leaving a trail.

Another two weeks until we spoke on the phone,
Each of us pacing our bedroom alone.

Thirty short hours we chatted that week,
Until getting the chance to finally speak -

Face to face on our very first date
(Dinner and a flick capped a lingering wait).

You were so nervous, you shook like a leaf;
Drifting through evening in raw disbelief.

That night was perfect, a dream coming true.
You understood me and I understood you.

It was right then we knew, that our time should be spent,
Happy together in the highest percent.

The next year flew by in nearly a blur,
Deep in exploration of who each of us were.

Going to movies and talking all night -
Impossible to stop with conversation in flight.

By the falling of leaves we were living as one,
Still packing each night with impossible fun.

We read lots of books, played lots of games,
Ate lots of pasta and kept fanning our flames.

We lived just like that for another three years;
Feeling so certain, harboring no fears.

We bought a few hundred square feet and even payed cash,
By emptying out our reciprocal stash.

We fixed our place up and then we moved in,
Ready for the next phase of our lives to begin.

We weren’t home too long when delight and surprise -
In nine months we’d welcome a new set of eyes.

Summer came quickly. We altered your name,
Though everything else stayed exactly the same.

The next nine months glowed with a beautiful mood,
Considerable questions and plenty of food.

Then a couple of weeks into the new year,
Our brand new baby was finally here.

“It’s a beautiful ballerina!” the doctor had said.
She wore your giant eyes in her petite little head.

She was perfect we knew from that very first day.
Nothing could take our happy away.

We brought our babe home into a world that was new.
She had so much to learn, both of us too.

Every lesson we taught her, she sent one in return.
Sometimes we were soft, sometimes we were stern.

We kept our minds open and let ourselves grow.
We held no horizons in our desire to know.

We discovered so much and were ready for more;
Both eager to make a new face to adore.

He arrived like a miracle, on Father’s Day morn -
That day when our sensational Son Shine was born.

He looked just like his daddy – our beautiful son.
We were finally four and our family was done.

Instantly bold, he demanded his place,
Insistent he share in an equal embrace.

That next year was hard, the hardest we’d had,
Though not for a second was it ever bad.

With so much to juggle and not enough minutes per day,
All of our minutes felt faded away.

We needed a reset or new way of thinking.
Life is no fun when it feels like you’re sinking.

I took hold of your hand, you took hold of mine.
If we jumped together, we’d both be fine.

We ran around three years, then aimed for the sky.
We’ll never get going if we never try.

We rebooted our reset and shattered our ceiling.
Intuition and instinct, fueled by gut feeling.

We took a big risk. We hope it will pay,
But we cannot expect our tomorrow today.

Our family is tight, like the threads of a rope,
And our future is filled with meticulous hope.

Life has never felt fuller or shined quite so bright,
As we wait for the spark of our next phase to ignite.

I’ve never loved you more than this moment today.
You are my angel, Happy Valentine’s Day!

Writer Dad

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Father Daughter Dance

February 8, 2009 By 54 Comments

Father Daughter Dance

2959783344_6432da080eAt last year’s father daughter dance, I knew nothing in advance. A note came home, I checked a box, then laid out my fancy socks.

Excitement mounted over days, as smiles gilded my girl’s gaze. The father daughter dance was nigh, beneath a diamond velvet sky.

We put on our fancy clothes (extra ironing, extra bows), then drove to the Heart Day Ball and slipped into the dining hall.

“Oh, my goodness!” we both gasped. Around my fingers hers were clasped. We both felt a bit demure; diffident, a tad unsure.

The cafeteria was transformed. Ornamented, lit and warmed. A temporary Paris, France, for our father, daughter Dance.

Our eyes were wide, wet with water. A treasure trove for father, daughter. Dancing dining, glide and twirl, holding close my daddy’s girl.

Father, daughter, dance we did. The two of us were lost amid a million lights and gleaming glow. We felt enchanted, apropos.

That night was magic, you can bet. Shining hours we shan’t forget.  A time to bond and hold her near. Now it’s here, another year.

Three-hundred and sixty-four since then nights, I’ve remembered all the twinkling lights. Excited for another chance; another father daughter dance.

Much has changed, though much has not. Wind’s whistled through our world a lot. Still sky above and sod beneath, but longer hair and six less teeth.

A brand new pic – compare, contrast – the space between the years is vast. This father daughter dance was dear, but faded fast and now I fear.

Another memory in the pool, a father daughter dance at school. How many more until they’re gone? A sprinkling few, unless I’m wrong.

Moments mount until they’re passed, rarely slow, too often fast. Treasure each before they fade and truly live the life you’ve made.

When I’m old with silver hair and sitting in my favorite chair, I’ll reminisce, review, reflect; remember when and recollect.

She’ll still want her daddy’s ear, and I’ll still want my baby near. We’ll laugh out loud when we’ve the chance, about that father daughter dance.

Writer Dad

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