God, you could have been
A golden teddy bear
A sailor in the wind
On a ship somewhere

You could have been an angel
With a healing touch
Though I don't think I'm able
I must ask that much

God you could have been
A doctor to my hurt
Sewing broken seams
Of my torn out shirt

You should have been protective
Stopped my father when
He cursed me with invective
Turned my outside in


Yet you were just a viewer
An eye behind a glass
You watched as we grew fewer
And harvested like grass

You're right. I'm talking to the wind.

If so, that's spooky. I was just thinking how poetic you are. I was going to say:

Don Bagley, you're a poet and I hope you know it. (And I ain't one!)

I'm sorry for all your trials. I wish that hadn't happened. Your father is the loser for not getting to know you.

I enjoy your posts, in spite of their poignancy. I think you have made something good come out of all the pain. I hope that makes a difference to you.

Meanwhile, I'm glad you're here.

Please carry on talking to the wind, the sun, the stars. I'm happy to eavesdrop and thank you for the opportunity.

This verse got to me:

"God you could have been
A doctor to my hurt
Sewing broken seams
Of my torn out shirt"

I wish.

Yes, I wrote it, Nightingale. I don't believe, but I always wish that there was a better father than the one I had. I wish I had a father who cared for me the way I did for my son. I wish that I had had a father who shared his resources with me and didn't make me live in the garage. I wish I'd had a father who didn't beat me and belittle me. I wish I had a father who didn't call me a crybaby and a girl. I wish I had a father who didn't put a lock on the food cupboard. Who didn't send me to school hungry with empty pockets. Who didn't make me do free labor for the Mormon church on Saturdays. Who didn't hate me for becoming a doubter.

I wish too.

I'm sorry for the hurt that led you to write it.

Speaking as a atheist, it was very healing to me when I came to believe that there wasn't some God up there ignoring my prayers or watching people die needlessly.

My Papa's Waltz
The whiskey on your breath
Could make a small boy dizzy;
But I hung on like death:
Such waltzing was not easy.
We romped until the pans
Slid from the kitchen shelf;
My mother's countenance
Could not unfrown itself.
The hand that held my wrist
Was battered on one knuckle;
At every step you missed
My right ear scraped a buckle.
You beat time on my head
With a palm caked hard by dirt,
Then waltzed me off to bed
Still clinging to your shirt.

--Theodore Roethke--

...I'm on my phone...

Dan, I hear ya 'bout fathers...more than I wish to say...

I really liked your poem Don.

With that said, I don't think Roethke's poem is necessarily about an abusive dad. It could be, but the dad may also be a good one.

I'd like to answer that, but not while typing on a phone.

I agree with you about the ambiguity of the Roethke's "Papa", by the way.

It's a great poem, and interesting. If you read it with a bunch of TBMs their reaction will be that the dad is an abusive dick, because he drinks, and to most TBMs there is no such thing as a nice drunk.

I think the case can be made either way; I personally side with the nice drunk version, but both readings have value.