Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

I most often see my father
in a mirror, in a shadow
moving behind a door,
odd that is...he dead now
almost five years; odder yet
because I know where I left him

It’s almost like he’s under water,
breathing through a hollow reed

It’s taken me all these years
to realize I will never hear his voice
again; yet, there he will be
leaning on a rake in my back
yard, his face elongating
in Pall Mall straight smoke

He is often a train whistle, even
the tracks themselves; he is
the smell of burning leaves,
a front porch, the loneliness
of a parlor, the rustiness
of a nail in need of replacement

It is midnight and I sit in the middle
of the kitchen: a clock buzzes,
the refrigerator hums; if father
does not soon speak for himself
there will be no noise tonight;
I may yet see him shake
his fist at the night sky

I love this poem, 68. How you describe that your father articulates his presence through a rusty nail. Brilliant. I think the essence of our loved ones is left behind by them, and they give us little reminders in surprising ways.

Enjoyed -- thank you!

SP:

Well, my dad was kind of a rusty nail in his own right so it fit. Thanks for the comments.

68degrees

beautiful, moving tribute ....and great poetry !

my father gone now 20 year - since he's been gone when a thought of him crosses my mind I've never been sure if it's me thinking of him or him thinking of me -

saw: Thanks

Mingo: I understand.

68degrees