The Swing

The measured sawn board,

sanded seat parallel

to the rise where the sappy roots dive

two ropes, worked through the holes,

knotted and plum.

My father pulls the swing,

leans back over the edge of the world,

grasps the ropes with hands

as scored as the inside of our wheelbarrow

the toes of his boots dig into the stubbled grass

behind the dirt patch launch.

Legs tucked, elbows bent,

a rocket ride

promised to aim

straight for the smiling sun,

the giddy countdown

and then

the push, as we move forward together

the rush of the under duck,

my legs unfold

reach to the robin’s egg sky above the pine bough

back to the bursting forsythias

back to him.

.

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Good Dads Have Sex Appeal

A good Dad.
Who is he?
Sometimes it’s hard to put it into words,
sometimes all you need is a good idea
and some action
a warm smile
lots of love
some patience thrown in
a lesson or two
a kid at heart to follow
one little book with a tree swing in it
some elbow grease
pliers and a good hammer
a little helper
heavy duty bright yellow rope
safe,

Papa and Robert put up a tree swing after reading about one in a story.
Papa and Robert put up a tree swing after reading about one in a story.

connecting steel chain
a special swing
a ladder and a sturdy branch.
That’s a good Dad
and
that’s a dream come true.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Shared on Poetry Pantry #153 at Poets United.

Sharing ideas makes the world go around...