Avant-Garde

My dad.
Is dada.
He is my protector.
He is my teacher.
He is no artist.
What he does is-
is important.

Housing, not drawing.
Following, leading, managing.
Learning, appraising, watching.
He is a watchful man.

He is at the front.
He is our advanced guard,
He is our eyes sometimes.
When we sleep, he has our absolute trust.
He has an edge.
Unlike every canvas that has its end,
my dad seems to go on.
Past that edge, I rarely push.
He’s already out there.

He is the scout.
He witnesses the world.
Observes it, through glasses-
and the colour-blind eyes of his.
Still the pale blue eyes,
Linked are his receptors.
The powerful brain. History!
He has a wealth few men have.
Educated, well managed, contained.
Humour. Enjoyable. Relaxed. Trusted.
Company, rife with wickedness suppressed.

He laughs at innovation,
at the proactive. He is. And he is laughing.
Self aware. Scared. Shy. Tempered.
Not so experimental.
My dada is not so keen on the abstract.
He searches, at the front.
For proof.
Smiling, with mug in hand.
“A two cups of tea day”
What a great line.

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