my father’s art and music:
lutes of green luster playing
sounds of classical
strings as they wound around
paintings sketched with pen-and-ink and
laid in with watercolor wash through
medieval antiphons
with cats in the background
and peanut brittle on the table
with a half-finished crossword puzzle
near his family
My father was an artist
He painted and he drew
But one day, he laid all that down
Decided he was through
And though he worked in music
Arranged with mind and pen,
He never really took up
His artistry again
Except when I was very small
And he was overseas
His letters contained sketches
Of us – his memories –
His talent so profuse that
Part of it he lightly hid:
I wanted so to be like him
But he no longer
Did
