In Memory of My Father
by Tim Forsythe

My father, William David Forsythe,
Was pretty average for his heighth.
His health, however, bordered on spectacular.
He spoke in a mid-western vernacular,
But in a way that was less fluid than guttural,
And in a manner slightly stutteral.
He had lots of children and a pretty wife,
And always carried a pocket knife.
He was pleasant, calm, warm and entreating,
And squeaked whenever he was eating.
He worked tirelessly in discount stores,
And fought in the second of the first world wars,
Against the Germans, shooting rockets,
And carried a handkerchief in his pant pockets.
He never had much to hang his hat on,
But he also never put much fat on.
He went to his grave with a minor prostate tumor
Never having lost his boyhood sense of humor.
He regaled us with stories often parched, but pithy,
My father, William David Forsythe.

In Memory of My Mother
by Tim Forsythe

My mother, Doris Marie Loebach,
Was the station and the rock.
She had a forceful, but quiet spirit,
And if you were late, you were gonna hear it.
She raised her children the best she was able.
There was always dessert on the dining table
Made from scratch, loved and mothered
With ingredients not found in the kitchen cupboard.
She was slender, tall, shapely and busty,
And lived in a house both cracked and musty,
So that every summer we could go on jaunts,
And occasionally eat in restaurants.
She taught us the difference between want and need,
Never complained or succumbed to greed,
Lived her life truthful with her chin held high.
I never saw her weep or cry,
Except, of course, when we played Charades.
Decorum — she had that in spades.
She left this world sharp as a carpet tack,
My mother, Doris Marie Loebach.