my father loved his apples, he had an expertise from hours spent when just child picking them off trees. i see them now, and think of how they kept him happy, trim -- my father loved his apples, and i guess i loved him
I drive here as I drove long years ago When my old father chatted by my side; He spoke of hist’ry, mining and the flow Of his thoughts, ever brimming long and wide. But now I ride alone in silent thought. My father loved this land, and understood That life is cruel, and time is … Continue reading "Arizona"
I close my eyes, and you are here again. Your hand upon my shoulder, just a boy; As though by magic, wrinkles smoothed away, And graves released their peaceful, sleeping ones. Your voice I hear, the ringing baritone, The joys of harmony, and hearts content, Though labor and the struggle, even then, Put creases on a … Continue reading "Here, Again"
There are two types of fathers: Those that feel guilty And those That have no business being fathers
You’re just a dad for show That’s all you ever effing were: Pretending that you care So much about both him and her No you cannot be bothered When they each need you to be you — But put on some performance when You think People Can see you
a worker in brass, my father was. in felt, and silver, too: a sax is then a different thing for me as (prob’ly) you for hours and hours out in his shop — i still recall it clear — my father would work with bits of brass, and make music appear
The world saw A dad body, But she knew A dad’s heart
Smells - nothing brings back memories so vividly.
My poor watchtower [...]