'Will you be my daddy?'
the girl in the woman whispered
to yet another lover, acquaintance,
man in the street who looked remotely
like he might just step in the phantom's shoes
...and the ache burned on
the searing, tearing
rags aflame
screamed
hot
and cold
as dry ice,
as unsuitable
whiskered men
became barnacled
to a little child's longing
to have a better papa than
the one that arrived to bash
all decency out of the fibre of
a life torn
This poem has welled up in response to one I have just reposted, penned by a deeply impacting, candid write by poet Joe Thompson. Not all have the privilege of having known a decent human father, one we can be proud to call our own. Of course, it would be unwise to seek to make any adult have to try to fill those shoes. The responsibility for wellness in adulthood rests with the one now no longer a child in calendar years. The 'adult' self needs to protect the 'child' inside and gently and firmly help them heal so that only safe partners are sought, with a view to experiencing and enjoying healthy relationships. I would be honoured if you could leave a comment on what thoughts and feelings arise in you as you read my poem. Thank you so much. (P.S. I appreciate knowing of any typos, however in Australia it is correct to write 'fibre' not 'fiber' and 'honoured' not 'honored')
