A yellow porch… a place called home,
unlike palaces built in old Rome,
red geraniums fixed to part Sea
where sands of desert thousands did roam.
He always painted yellow that porch;
a childhood haven where sun not scorch.
A few chairs, we’d travel anywhere!
All awhile, was he who held the torch.
Why bright yellow a porch, you may ask?
Decades of painting no easy task;
made to bring sunshine on autumn day
or erase the pain behind his mask.
Lost his dear family at only ten,
viewed the pain of dying wartime men,
no sweet samisen sang that dreadful day;
only log written with drying pen.
I’ll paint my own yellow porch someday.
Embrace the notion we must also play
to make life loose, a shedding skin,
unlock rusty chains and wash them away.
Linking up at dVerse with a open menu; my dish a memory from the past of a man I’ll always think highly of, my Dad.