Ya. That's My Dad Poem by Smoky Hoss

He arrived like a spring shower
in the roaring '20's,
formed the impressions of his mind and soul
in the desperation of the
Great Depression,
crossed the thorny threshold of transition
from teenager to manhood
at the backdoor of
World War II's darkness,
he spent nearly 30 days
on wild, stormy waves
crossing the ocean wide
trying to return alive,
to where at long last
he found the sweet sunshine of home
in the heart of a simple American girl.

After he passed
she told stories,
rather matter-of-factly,
of how for months after the War
he'd awake nights in a cold sweat
unable to sleep
unable to speak of his nightmares,
nobody knew, except her, nobody understood,
except for those, who like him, had been there.
Without realizing it
he spent the next 40-some years
absolving his heart
in the cleansing toil of hard work
providing for those he loved more than himself,
and, in the baptismal waters of child-rearing,
that steadily washes selfish sins away
as nothing else can.

Is it silly to believe
that we are all essentially redeemed
from the dark in our lives
by the glorious sunshine
of our few best moments?
For why else does
hope exist?

So now
when someone looks at the picture of him
I keep proudly in my den,
the one where he is older
sitting on the International tractor he restored,
smiling,
and they say,
'Is that your dad?
He looks like a real good guy.'
I say, with a thankful heart,
'Ya. That's my dad.'