When Poetry Runs in the Family
Sometimes poetry isn’t just something we stumble into, and it’s something that threads itself into our family history. My stepdad, as a teenager, had a poem published. That poem became one of his early milestones, a moment of recognition that showed him his words carried weight and resonance.
For years, that story lived in our family as a point of pride. A reminder that poetry can reach beyond the page, that it can take a teenager’s thoughts and stamp them into the world for others to see.
Carrying the Torch: My Poetic Response
Recently, I found myself thinking about that poem again. But instead of just admiring it, I decided to step into the conversation myself. I wrote a response piece… no, not to his father, as his original poem had been written, but to him.
In doing so, the poem became something multi-generational. His words reached back toward his father. Mine reached back, to him. The thread stretched, carrying a dialogue that spans decades, relationships, and grief, yet ties us together in the language of poetry.
Here is that poem, my response to his legacy:
“Dad One”
From the son…
To dad one with love
Remember when you came into my life,
stepped to the plate,
and even taught me how to play ball?
Dad, you never missed a game,
a practice, or a play.
You helped mold me into the man I am.
I may not share your genes,
but I carry all of you.
I would give many things
to have another conversation with you,
to say what we have left unsaid.
This is coming from the heart.
Though we can never start again,
every day I wake knowing
you are proud of me.
Why This Matters
Poetry has a way of crossing boundaries. Whether it is between time, between people, or even between generations. My stepdad’s published poem and my response to it stand as proof that art doesn’t live in isolation. It echoes, it answers, and it evolves.
This wasn’t just about writing a poem. It was about creating a bridge. His words to his father, and my words to him. That’s what makes poetry eternal. It has a way of inviting others into the conversation, long after the ink has dried.
Family stories take many forms. Ours happened to take the shape of poetry, a legacy written in lines and verses. My stepdad’s published work planted a seed, and my response poem carries that seed into new ground.
Maybe that’s the real beauty of poetry. It never really ends. It just keeps finding new voices to speak through.
Whisper to the void it might whisper back