Ode to my Dad

A life spent in a sticks-and-bricks,
although he loved to camp;

My father died at sixty-six,
much younger than my gramp.

 

I’d visit once or thrice a year,
one has to do one’s part;

I should have gone more often,
too much time spent apart.

 

He had so much to teach me,
I so often ignored;

Around the age of thirty-three,
I finally was floored.

 

Turns out he had the wisdom
we kids so often miss;

He demonstrated vision
of people, nature, bliss.

 

My father was a hero,
in war, in peace, and home;

More important than dinero,
get out there and  roam.

 

If one thing you take from this
assuming you can bother,

Go outside and find your bliss,
and listen to your father.