The Father’s Watch

I gave him what he asked.

It broke me, but love does not chain.

Each morning I searched the road,

eyes aching for a shadow,

ears straining for a voice I knew.

The day he came—thin, broken,

I did not wait.

I ran.

I ran though my neighbors stared,

though my dignity scattered like dust.

I held him before his words could.

I clothed him before his shame could.

I feasted him before his guilt could.

He was my son.

That was enough.

And still, I went out again—

to the one who stayed,

angry and alone in his duty.

I pleaded with him too.

Two sons.

Two hearts.

One table.

All are mine.

Words That Push, Words That Heal

“Where have you been?” can close a door.
“It’s good to see you” opens more.
“You finally showed up,” builds a wall.
“I’m glad you’re here,” can lift us all.
“If you had faith…” can wound the soul.
“I know it’s hard,” can help make whole.
“That’s not our way,” can turn away.
“Let me walk with you,” invites to stay.
“Just pray harder” sounds like blame.
“I’ll pray with you” lights a flame.
“Get over it” can make hearts hide.
“That sounds heavy” walks beside.
“Maybe you don’t belong,” tears apart.
“There’s a place for you” heals the heart.

 "Are We Broken?"

I: The Hidden Beast

We daily stumble, lost along the way,
Each path we cross, we dare not linger long.
For whispers rise where playground laughs went wrong.
A beast within begins to stalk its prey.

It waits in shadows just beyond our reach,
When we stop, there's fear of what might arise.
A storm of pain behind each guarded eyes,
A savage truth no sermon dares to preach.

So we press on, pretending that were whole,
With every step, we mask what lies beneath.
But silence trembles in each shallow breath,
And still it prowls the edges of our soul.

Will we look away and not answer thus.
A beast is born, circling now around us.

II: The Sword Drawn

We’ve felt the wounds of all we’ve had to bear,
We should stand, resolved, unshaken and proud.
We speak with fire, our voice becomes a shroud
A wall of words to shield the hurt in there.

Our fears, once silent, surge into a flame,
A sword unsheathed, slashing before we think.
The edges sharp with rage and blackened ink,
Each sentence flung becomes a cry of blame.

Yet something breaks each time we raise our voice,
A mirror cracks inside our very core.
This battle leaves us weaker than before,
And still we charge, as if we have no choice.

With each strike that's done, we remain alone.
We'll find no peace with breaking blood or bone.

 III: The Garden Hill

We climb the hill where silence softly speaks.
Where the moonlight bathes these named stones that weep.
We sit in stillness; thoughts no longer leap,
While moaning goes on from the highest peaks.

We kneel alone to find our troubled kind,
Where tears mix with candles upon the ground.
We've lashed and frowned, but peace we haven't found.
And waited for the turning of our mind.

We hear it asked not only what we feel,
But who we are, and who we choose to be.
The sword falls silent; we begin to see.
A heart laid bare is where it starts to heal.

So on this hill, we lay our anger down,
And trade a crown of pride for thorn and crown.

 IV: Paths Made New

Arise and go, the past can lose its sting.
We'll not be the prisoner of regret.
Speak words once caged we could not yet admit.
Forgiveness, like a river, starts to sing.

The path once shattered now begins to mend,
Our broken steps now echo side by side.
We drop our pride, no longer need to hide,
And reach for them, not enemy, but friend.

The words are simple, yet they free the soul.
"I forgive you" and mean it through and through.
Now love walks with us, steady, strong, and true,
Restoring all that bitterness once stole.

Our paths now joined where once the rift was wide, 
We walk as one, with mercy as our guide.

These poems grew out of my original piece, Broken Paths (https://pachathepoet.blogspot.com/2025/06/broken-paths.html).