My Father Lost His

Engines crossed the yard that day,
Increased business sent the extra engine early,
Got in the way, they said, when they found
Him still alive, steamed between two Great Northerns.
They sent for his wife, drove her to his side,
Youngsters left in Dottie Jean’s hands,
Each shivering from the tales
A round of train folk told, of the pain, of waiting,
Roasting slowly to his death. His little
Son sat on the steps of the speak-easy, waiting
Only his father never came. He cried, to him his
Loving father was a God, immortal, tall, tanned
Dead a week later, the cortège a mile long
Sitting in the front row, scrubbed and clean,
Old timers passed murmuring their sorrow.
Now life would change, penniless, six mouths left unfed.

 

Acrostic poetry is one of the styles that children learn early in their studies. It gives a framework for a student to get beyond. It gives the stability that lovers of poetry like, that binds them to something in a personal way. The difficulty is to make the poems original. The message that you sent as you mature depends upon word use, punctuation, and the background of the poem. This is a true story of how my grandfather died. I wasn’t there. Dad was eight years old and lost in a sea of loneliness. If it hadn’t been for his oldest sister, and his mother, he would never have found his happy again. It did make for difficult years as he had no role model to rely on as my brothers became teens.

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