Homeward Bound

 
I sang to my Father
on his deathbed.
He had not spoken a word
in days, cancer-ridden,
organs collapsing, high on morphine,
but I knew he could still hear me.
I sang a song
from a book I’d written
years earlier during a particularly
good time in my life, and this,
being a particularly dark time,
seemed like the right time
to balance the dualistic energies.
I don’t think
I gave such considerations
that much thought
at the time; I was just sad
and wanted to sing, wanted
my Father to hear my voice
in a deep bass tone
that mirrored his own.
I sang a song called Home.
I sang it with all my soul,
as a goodbye note
to the most important person
I have ever known.
 
-originally appeared in Wilderness House Literary Review



Perspective


When I was a child
my Dad
would take me
to the baseball card store
at Green’s Corner
off Jimmy Carter Blvd.
It seemed like such
a long journey,
a fun trip,
a special occasion.
The store was on the
second floor
of a strip mall.
I lost five dollars
at two different times
in that same store,
which seems almost impossible,
yet it is true.
I loved collecting cards
with my Dad.
We spent countless hours together –
buying the packs, sitting on the floor,
opening them, organizing each card by number,
talking about the different players and teams.
My Dad died earlier this year,
so it was just me and Mom
on Thanksgiving. We drove
past where the card store
used to be years ago.
Older now, I realize
it’s not actually that far away,
only a few miles
from the house,
and it doesn’t feel
like such a special trip anymore.
 
This poem originally appeared at Medusa’s Kitchen





Memorabilia

 
I read a poem to my Mother
in the living room,
and she laughed,
thinking it was good;
and it made me
feel good,
even though I was
34 years old, and was
sitting in a chair
that once belonged
to my Grandfather
back before he died,
in a house that belonged
to my Father
back before he died.
But they both did die.
And so the blood
and the name
are both left with me.
And so I guess it’s ok
that my energy
is used
making my Mom laugh
at poems
that are
inspired by Bukowski
while we sit here
together on Thanksgiving.
 
-originally appeared in Eye on Life Magazine