Poetry

Every autumn the leaves turn. I travel to the place of my fathers resting. In an urban setting, Colored in ranch style houses and drying laundry, The two of us come together again. I seldom say much. Not really a point. During his life, we weren’t close, Just never seemed right. Not really what either of us wanted, But we seldom said much. In a kind of opening reverence, I bow to a knee. Without thought, I gently touch the stone. The letters are harsh and cold. Alone they hold no meaning, but the stone Reminds me to grieve. ...

Packing, boxes, tape, more boxes more tape…. That’s my life for the next few weeks. I’m getting ready to move. Finally facing reality and ditching the too-big house and moving into an apartment in the part of town where stuff actually happens. And I am going to use this opportunity to shed much of the stuff I’ve been hauling around for the past thirty years. We’ll see how that goes. ...

Where are my thoughts? In small boxes and cubbyholes, Arcane bits of the past Whisper the names of old friends And hum old songs. In files, yellowed paper and faded handwriting. Checks, receipts, manual for a long gone kitchen appliance, To do’s and to don’ts, Old addresses and old loves, Old projects, old degrees, flight logs And pictures of Navy subs. Perhaps on the computer, Etched on platters, matters of drive; Work and toil, man and machine. ...

Yeah, I know. This post is a bit down, but I wanted to share a photo in a post, so why not post about my recently deceased Dalmatian? Within affections distant touch, Life’s gentle breath slowing to pass away, Torn wailing grief; a cold wind Through emptiness and regret. Ideal of selfless gift, strength and beauty, Leaves the final lesson cold. In thought and apparent gentle reminder, Of life’s fluid nature, the final gift, ...