I Forgive You, Dad
You didn’t understand me, nor know how to deal with me;
I’m different to you, Dad, though I can see you in me.
When facing a mirror, I sometimes think I’m seeing you,
And that rather disturbs me, but there’s little I can do.
Yes, you really frightened me — overdid things, didn’t you?
You lost it sometimes, hence why some discipline went askew.
I cried out “I’m sorry,” begged you to halt both fist and boot,
And hated you for it, wished you were dead, thought you a brute.
Mum hated it too, and condemned it, but what could she do?
After all, despite your wrong behaviour, she did love you.
And all said and done, you were a good man, I have to say,
Whom stress got the better of -- and background too, one must weigh.
We’re all victims of our background to some degree — therefore,
The consequences of such, it would be wrong to ignore.
This I’ve come to see, having erred myself, unsurprisingly,
For I’m the product of your influence — and genes, you see.
Yes, I’ve the scars to prove it, Dad, and they’ve dogged me daily,
But I have picked up on those good things you instilled in me.
Yes, I’m quite a mixture, as both good and bad came my way,
Which I’m still dealing with, and much have dealt with, I must say.
Mother loved me, Dad, though her positive quips irked me;
I seemed to be down a lot, was looking for empathy.
At times she was silent, sided with you — and wrongly, I thought,
But I guess in the middle mothers sometimes do get caught.
Surely you loved me too, Dad, though you seemed quite hard to me,
So independent, capable — lacking sensitivity.
You weren’t into feelings, Dad, you didn’t have time for such,
Or so it seemed, for affection wise, I didn’t see much.
A son needs cuddles too, Dad, a father he can talk to,
A dad who’ll spend time with him, time I wished I’d had with you.
And it is okay to cry, Dad, I wasn’t such a baby,
Just a son who needed you — but sadly, you were too busy.
Many of your words stung, Dad, not just your actions, you know,
Thus, there were nights on the bridge when I watched the river flow.
Something held me back — I’m not sure what it was — fear, maybe;
Oh, Dad, it all messed me up, destroyed my security.
I’ve raised my own children, Dad, and it hasn’t been easy,
Given those inner demons, my struggle emotionally.
But I’ve tried to do my best, and that’s all that I can do,
Given your flawed example — yes, that legacy from you.
However, I understand things now, for I’ve felt stress too,
And have come to see how our background can affect what we do.
I don’t excuse what you did, for no one should, obviously,
But it’s just that I’ve learnt a lot — now see things differently.
And I forgive you, Dad, and I think I love you now — want to,
I’m sad you’re not here though, and hey, I’ve changed a lot too.
Maybe you’d be proud of me — it would mean so much to me,
For that and a father’s love, every son desires, needs, you see.
It's a shame you didn't say sorry, Dad
By Lance Landall
Indelible Impressions
I’m aware you loved me, Mum, and that you cared about me;
You proved that via things you said and did, your sensitivity.
Often at bedtime — (which Dad didn’t like) — you’d listen to me,
While I unburdened myself, and shared some things tearfully.
Yes, you were a good mother, you did your best for us all,
But like Dad, you had your issues too, I clearly recall.
And like Dad’s, those issues affected me negatively,
Impacting my younger years — and beyond, unfortunately.
When I was born, Mum, you were most upset; rejected me,
Another boy! Yes, I wasn’t the girl you’d wanted badly.
Sure Dad talked you ’round, but oh, what those little ones can sense,
Thus, I guess that’s how one’s insecurities can commence.
My birth brought disappointment, tension — briefly, hopefully;
What a rough introduction to life for a wee baby.
Some years later you adopted a baby girl, (joyously),
Yes, you’d clearly wanted one a lot, Mum — that, all could see.
I’ve wondered how I felt about all this when I was small.
Unwanted? Betrayed? Certainly at one stage, I recall.
Why? You knew I didn’t like the thought of going to school,
But, “Let’s go shopping,” you said, and I innocently thought, “Cool.”
Well, we didn’t go shopping, Mum, but to a school instead,
And I guess that’s where trust unraveled — boy, did I see red.
A small thing to you, perhaps, but not in the eyes of a kid,
So who knows what went on inside my innocent young head.
After all, I was six then, and loved being at home with you;
I didn’t do too well at school, Mum, and left early too.
But while what you did was wrong, other factors played a part,
For bullies and errant teachers helped tip the applecart.
Remember that camp, Mum — (my first time away from home) — and,
How when I returned you scowled, ignored me? I didn’t understand.
I really felt that, and that brush you threw at me one day,
For I was horrified that a mother would act that way.
Certainly there were times when I acted rather naughty,
However, I’ve wondered why, just what was propelling me.
You threatened to put me in a home for boys, scaring me —
(I wasn’t that bad, Mum) — which fed my insecurity.
It’s funny how certain things stay with you, stick in your mind,
And how later incidents unpleasantly remind, I find.
I could mention more, but won’t — yes, home life was up and down,
And I’ve wondered if that’s why I’ve often acted the clown.
But all’s forgiven, Mum, for there is one thing I have learnt:
We’re all the product of our background, affected, struggling, burnt.
And yes, stress and circumstances can see us go astray,
Hence why we all need to be merciful when others dismay.
And yes, such mercy should begin within the family,
Parents forgiving children, children their parents, truly.
But how better that home where there is no need to forgive,
Given no wrong’s committed, and all in harmony live.
By Lance Landall
Mother
Our dear mother’s gone now — she’s blissfully at rest — free from crippling age,
Her funeral her final curtain call, and farewell from earth’s stage.
But mother won’t be forgotten, nor remembered infrequently,
For she continues in her children — each one of us — individually.
Mother bore us in her womb, raised us faithfully and lovingly,
Now we’re chapters in her book, woven threads in her tapestry.
And in the depths of our hearts, our love for our mum will never cease,
Nor our memories of her, until we too, are resting in peace.
From the clutches of death — yes, dust to dust — nobody is immune,
For life is but a fleeting span — and too often, it ends too soon.
Therefore, it pays to treasure moments, for our memories live on,
And they’re better when they’re sweeter, after one’s final breath has gone.
And the memories of our dear mother are very sweet indeed,
Thus, over her sad departure, our hearts will most certainly bleed.
But amidst that sadness, the perfume of her love will linger, and,
Each of us will know that though she’s gone, she’s still very close at hand.
By Lance Landall
