I like to think myself a composer
With a twisted tongue and a tired hand
Words ebb and flow
Singing whichever chord
Strikes the moment

The talent and marvel
Lies within a word's cryptology
Poetry is the art of directing
To string sounds along
Invoking a provoking resonance

Shattering mental barriers
Where fleeting thoughts should roam.

Fireflies luminate in wake of a setting sun
Tiny beacons becoming a river of light
Riding the current into the dusk dreams
The delicate drink of the evening affairs

Night owls, inspired by the twilight
Screech a verse with midnight maddness
Acrobatic arms orchestrate sunset tunes
Big booms serenade noctournal beast

Dark now blooms with wild music
The New Moon offering her acoustic
Play on, play on, before they wake
The Sunset Symphony, until day break

The clock is sitting by the bed
I hear it ticking in my head
it's morning that I really dread
time to go and make the bread
have to keep the family fed
if I don't, then they'll be dead

The velvet green forest ferns
tickle her slender pale ankles

My father died
from a gun shot wound
to the head

self-inflicted

Don't get all weird about it.

Fathers die
and their passing
though certain
is rarely easy.

So what can I say of this man
so many years
after his emphatic end?

I can say what Whitman said
of Lincoln:
"O Captain, my Captain.
Rise up and hear the bells."

But he will not.

He was ever-present
wise and alert
a boxer in life
a fighter in every way.

And I grew up with the gloves on
quick
elusive
and thanks to him
successful in every ring.  

He died
******* on a lit tobacco stick

Emphysema was gonna
take him down
so he pulled his own trigger
saved his family that way
though that's a longer tale

Therefore
and whereas
this is a belated requiem
for a man I loved.
My Captain.
Dear and departed
these many years
may he rest in peace
as he never rested
in life.

The straw to bring a horrid fate
The last straw to be drawn
I always get the short one
It seems all hope is gone

The straw that broke the camel's back
The burdens are so great
It seems my weary struggling
Has no way to abate

Like a drowning woman
I grasp at straws that float
It seems that there's no liferaft
Let alone a boat

But as I reach for the flimsy reed
Of Faith on which to stand
Just as I'm about to sink
I'm holding a strong hand

The straw I thought so weak & frail
As it first appeared
Was the Hand of Jesus Christ

My Savior & my LORD


SoulSurvivor
(C) 6/21/2016