A Tribute To My Dad

November is traditionally a month in which people remember their loved ones and friends that they have lost and miss so much in their lives.  I am no exception and this month I am thinking a lot about my beloved dad who I love and miss every day.  I hope he would like this little tribute.  For you dad.

                                           William (Willie/Bill) Harwood  1922 - 1999


                                                           OUR    DAD

                                               Our dad had sea blue eyes
                                               And a slender nose
                                               He wore a  white vest
                                               And dipped his shaving brush
                                               In soap in a cracked mug
                                               He smiled at us in the mirror
                                               He rode his bicycle
                                               To the nylon factory
                                               At Fumbally Lane
                                               He sat on a bench in the sun
                                               His small white dog by his side
                                               Sipping tea and whiskey from it's bowl
                                               At the seaside
                                               Our dad rolled up his trouser legs
                                               And paddled his feet
                                               In ice cold water
                                               His sandals lay on the sand
                                               He loved music and Jesus and Mary
                                               His fingers tapped out
                                               A myriad of tunes
                                               On a red accordion
                                               And counted  Hail Marys'
                                               On his brown rosary beads
                                               Our dad had a scar
                                               Where his voice use to be
                                               He watched old westerns on t v
                                               Laurel and Hardy made him laugh
                                               Our dad died
                                               The mourners spilled onto
                                               The church steps
                                               A stranger asked
                                               Who died, the Presedent?
                                               No we answered
                                               He was just
                                               Our dad
                                                                               
                                                                                            by Elizabeth Harwood Cullen