For Daddy:)

I know this is my blog and all, and is supposed to be full of my writing, but I want to take a step back and talk about the man who inspires me every time I write, and is a beautiful writer himself.

Yep! He's my Dad! My Dad is the inspiration behind all of my poems, stories, and this blog. (Of course, Jesus inspires me the most, since He gave me the gift of writing, but my Dad is also very important in the process as well.)

My Dad is a very talented writer, he has written many, many poems over the years, and when it comes to writing, we are so much alike. Sometimes, especially on long car rides when it's just me and him, we like to make up nonsense poems. It's pretty amazing how we practically finish each other's sentences. And as he says, "After all, we are related!" :)

One of my Dad's students(my Dad is an English Prof. in our small Christian college in town)made him a packet organized as a book full of his poems one year. I read it all of the time.

I give Jesus all of the credit for making me the writer I am now, and I thank my Dad for inspiring me. SO THANK YOU, DADDY, IF YOU ARE READING THIS!!!

One day I hope to become a writer, well, I take that back, I already AM a writer, what I am trying to say is that one day I hope to become a published writer. Maybe one day I will. But for now, I continue to watch and learn the beauty and art of writing by watching my Dad.

Enough of that, here is my favorite poem written by my Dad, and then one written by me. Hope you enjoy!

Job
At bedtime every night he sings
"Amazing Grace" to his only daughter,
he says a prayer with his second son,
and bends to kiss his close-cropped head
cocooned beneath his comforter.
To his teenage son who's reading on the bed
he gives a manly hug,
then joins his wife in the living room.
The bills are paid, the dishes done,
he grabs a beer and turns the TV on.
Tomorrow he will hit the gym,
this weekend get some yard work done
and church and teaching Sunday school.
As usual on his favorite show,
they catch the bad guy in the end.
He ends up dozing through the news
but catching part of Letterman

In bed he thinks of everything
that he's been spared. He's not afraid
he'll wake up to bombs, or searchlight glare,
or soldiers kicking down his door.
Disasters strike him as quite unlikely
living so far from a fault line,
coast, or tornado alley. His town
has little theft, less rape, no murder.
He offers thanks, a top ten list
of ways that he's been over blessed,
though soon he'll be drifting off to sleep.
A fleeting thought disturbs his pleasant mood,
he hopes that God's got nothing left to prove.


And by me: Modern Martyr: Dedicated to Cassie, victim of the shooting at Columbine High school

A gun pointed to your face, yet you lost no trace of
faith.
A question hanging by a thread, yet you felt no surge
of dread.
A trigger pulling back, you felt no need to attack,
A bullet flying through the air,
but your heart was already there.
A light shone in the darkness, you are not alone.
A siren screaming, a shout of orders,
an empty body,
a lifeless martyr.
A hallelujah, a guilty boy,
a panicked officer, a scene without joy.
You held onto the promise of life, you fought Goliath,
you won the fight.