NaPoWriMo #20 - Perfect Dance

National Poetry Month Prompt #20 (From Read WritePoem) - The Hero Poem
        Write a poem in which you to pay tribute to your hero, past or present.
        I have been playing around with this idea and subject for awhile, so it seemed natural to go back and spend sometime with it.  I lived with my great grandparents until I was almost seven.  They were both amazing people!  There are so many stories to share about my experiences with them.  I hope you enjoy this one.


Perfect Dance

He towered over me;
my Papa.
He’d grab my arms
swinging me
effortlessly onto his broad shoulders
as he whistled his way to town;
my short legs unable to catch up.
I could see forever.

I never knew him with copper-hair
Like mine –
a thin layer of white frosted
the sides of his head;
only one or two wisps
dusted the top.
He smelled of Vitalis and
a sweet, earthy aroma
emitting from a strange brown object,
tucked neatly in the left breast pocket
of his blue-striped shirt;
carefully caressed between his navy-blue suspenders and
the inside edge of his pocket.
Throughout the day,
he would reach up and
remove the cherished object,
tenderly turning it between two fingers
slowly and carefully sliding it under his nose as he inhaled -
eyes closed…face smiling…
like he knew something
no one else knew.
I wondered what secrets he held.

Occasionally, he’d let me smell through the clear wrapping –
I’d inhale as he held the object,
struggling to mimic that knowing look.
I liked it best when he removed the wrapper –
he gave me the ring,
too big for tiny fingers,
but cherished treasure any way..

The days were long;
as the warmth of the sun began to fade,
he’d pull his metal rocker to the corner of our old wooden porch…
he’d reach
into his special pocket;
one last time -
a ritual repeated the same time daily -
a rhythm to this tango I never understood.
He’d carefully unwrap his treasure,
hand me the ring,
strike match on sole –
inhale...
deeply -
rings of smoke magically arose from his mouth…
I was in awe!
Perfection.
I loved the aroma…
I loved the rings…
I loved the mysterious day long dance I never understood…
I marveled at his patience;
ecstasy obviously within reach…

Years later,
when he was gone,
I tried to recreate that scene…
Somehow,
something was lost in
translation…
recreation incomplete…
Occasionally,
though,
I catch a whiff on the wind…
A sweet, earthy aroma
permeates the air,
transporting me back…
to that magical time…
I inhale deeply…
slowly…
Savoring that glorious aroma;
attempting to capture that mystery
once again.
I endlessly search for those perfect rings…
I ceaselessly seek
the rhythm of the dance he knew so well…
I ache
to swing effortlessly
onto his shoulders
where I can see…
forever…
instead of always trying to catch up.

©Bridget Nutting, 2010


     I wrote the following as a present for my husband's 50th birthday a few years ago.  I couldn't leave him un-mentioned today as a hero, so I thought I'd share my tribute to him.


Everyday Heroes

With all this talk about heroes,
It’s easy to forget,
The men who haven’t walked through fires
Or brought down hijacked jets.
The men who have worked all the days of their lives
Just doing what they must
To bring food to their hungry families
And honor to their vows of trust.
They have fought the daily battles,
When it was much easier to leave.
They have looked temptation in the eye,
When a simple lie would deceive.
They have walked away from other women
Who offered comfort from life’s storms.
They choose to remain with their families
Within the circle safe and warm.

Chorus:
Oh, he’s an everyday hero.
A father to his daughters and sons…
A husband to the wife he loves…
A friend to everyone…
His hands are rough from working hard;
Yet, his touch is gentle and mild.
The burden he carries can be hard for a man,
So, sometimes he acts like a child.
He’ll never be a millionaire.
He might never write a poem.
He’s just an everyday hero,
Who enjoys coming home.

He arises before the sun comes up.
It’s dark by the end of his day.
He rarely takes a vacation,
Because there are always bills to pay.
He’s tired, but he still helps his family,
Whenever they need a hand.
He teaches them to nurture their inner strength
And to always take a stand.
He shows them that strength has a softer side
By his hugs and his listening ear.
He tells them life isn’t easy…
Just work hard; there’s nothing to fear.
He hugs them good night and gets ready for bed
For tomorrow’s another day…
And although he deserves more in this life he leads,
Tomorrow will start out the same way.

Chorus:
He’s just an everyday hero.
A good father to his daughters and sons…
A faithful husband to the wife he loves…
A good friend to everyone…
His hands are rough from working hard,
Yet his touch is gentle and mild.
The burden he carries can be hard for a man,
So sometimes he acts like a child.
He’ll never be a millionaire.
He might never write a poem.
He’s just an everyday hero,
Who enjoys coming home.

©Bridget Nutting, 2004