1 My father was a tower bell that tolled the hour, a hammer against the iron rings of time, dry sand in an hourglass, empty bottle of wine. In life I could not embrace his secrets. When he died, clouds wept, birds mourned, and the great clock in the hallway stopped. 2 I saw my father's face covered with dirt his swollen lips bent to meet horizon's last gaze, kissing his way to the land of the dead
A companion piece to the previous one, continuing the excavation. Instead of drawing any kind of easy conclusion, the mystery is revealed to be even more mysterious. Beautifully done, Paul. Both pieces.
I had only one other poem about my father, written long, long ago, and it escapes me entirely, although I know it had something to do with fishing. Odd, I have never written anything about my mother, or maybe only a line or two, but sometimes I feel her spirit while writing. As always, Patris, Thank You for reading and for your comments.
My mother’s death occurred before my father’s. I felt like a boat with one mooring line ripped away and it would only be a matter of time before the other line snapped and I would be set adrift.
A companion piece to the previous one, continuing the excavation. Instead of drawing any kind of easy conclusion, the mystery is revealed to be even more mysterious. Beautifully done, Paul. Both pieces.
Yes.
The metaphors sing. "My father was a tower bell that tolled the hours". Love it.
Glad you like it, Karen-Thank You!
As Jonathan wrote, these last pieces - not only holding hands, so to speak, but embracing one another. So moving.
I had only one other poem about my father, written long, long ago, and it escapes me entirely, although I know it had something to do with fishing. Odd, I have never written anything about my mother, or maybe only a line or two, but sometimes I feel her spirit while writing. As always, Patris, Thank You for reading and for your comments.
They never leave us.
I rarely see my father in my dreams, but I can feel my mother sometimes as close as the next room.
With your writing this morning, you brought my father back into my mind, Paul. Thank you.
I think you’re right, Patris!
Beautiful
Thank you, Mary!
The passing of one's Father is consequential in one's life, but I believe the passing of one's Mother is even more so.
My mother’s death occurred before my father’s. I felt like a boat with one mooring line ripped away and it would only be a matter of time before the other line snapped and I would be set adrift.
Indeed, Paul. Becoming an orphan is painful at any age.
Bittersweet and so beautiful.
Yes. Unable to say more.
Thank you, Malcolm
Paul...what a beautiful piece it kind of makes you go wow, who is this about? Priceless.
Thank You, Senetta. I wrote these two pieces for my father.
Thank you for restacking this, @Chen Rafaeli
Thanks for the restack, @Stirling S Newberry