Woodrow Wilson Whidden, Senior

My father did not smell of manly sweat.

He smelled of loyalty.  He smelled of faith

And dedication.  His idea of debt

Was what he owed to family, wife, love, faith,

And sons.  An elder in a tiny church,

He sat behind the pastor; did not smell

Of holiness.  As straight as one white birch,

He lived his righteousness as clear as bell

Notes, carillon chimes from the tall Bok tower

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Across the Florida he loved.  His white

Was more like thunderheads, perhaps. His power

Was in his talk, his chosen path to might.

..His khaki smelled of smoke from bee yard work.

….The one thing Woodrow never did was shirk.

by phillipw | Apr 1, 2020 | WH, WO | 1 comment