Tag: father

poetry

inheritance

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inheritance

what would he think of his wife
whittling away his children’s wealth
erasing their names
by the respective x’s,
and inserting her own,
including his difficult surname
that she’d earned
over the long hard years
lying beside his failing body

he was mostly all business
proud of his cold calculations
he watched the stock ticker crawl
from his hospital bed
and once, after opposing counsel shamed him,
he pinned the man in the courthouse elevator,
threatened him and others to come

but sometimes he was pleased
to unfist his hands
smugly magnanimous
glad to be the bigger man
or perhaps generous with guilt

I think he’d just be disappointed
in any one of us who failed to fight
his money wasted (he’d mutter)
on idiots
who ought to have learned
how to hold on to a gift

poetry

endless knot

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endless knot

one year after his death
not much new has come to light
except a few photos
including one of my mother and him
tender, both in Irish sweaters,
as if it were all meant to be
as if things once fit
even as if one might trace
the complicated thread uniting
all our lives
follow along its convoluted loops
and one day see the whole thing
through the distance of time
to find an intricate Celtic knot
then believe/understand that it was all
part of the plan
that sculpted the landscape of now
tugged us into the beings we’ll be
wove us into shapes
that will someday make us able
to give what’s needed
without worrying why

poetry

Father’s Day

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Father’s Day

for maybe the first time
I felt no void this day
no sense of want or lacking

the day washed over me
a clear simple wave
celebrated with my husband
sons
father-in-law

there was a freedom
in not needing more
a peace
in feeling whole

even after the phone rang
it was so easy
to be good

poetry

Jack

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Jack

she writes
Black Lives Matter
and he writes
no
undoing the humanity of millions
in two small letters
undoing his daughter’s hope
he writes no
we watch in horror
as he chooses
supremacy
power
privilege
subjugation
oppression
hegemony
arrogance
over his daughter’s
LOVE

poetry

Debaser in Chief

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Debaser in Chief

at a time this country needs
men who lay down arms
take a knee
and march with us

he stands scolding
arms folded shaking his head
then wagging his finger

just like my father
standing over my little bawling son
ordering
you –
cut that out

they never learned
the fastest way to end tears
is with with an understanding
hug

something in this breathless time
we all ache for

poetry

Where I’m From

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This poem uses a format George Ella Lyon has invited others to borrow to tell the story of where they are from.

Where I’m From

I am from newsprint
from Deep Woods Off! and Coppertone
three Rust Belt houses
moving up and down the social ladder
(the smell of the neighbor’s
lily-of-the-valley in the spring)
I am from creek shale and grapevine
twined into forts and swings
I’m from homemade applesauce
and too much booze
from Thomas Francis Browns
and William Joseph Schaafs
I’m from the secret-keepers
and the never-satisfieds
from the optimism of Good morning, morning glory!
and the poverty of That’s from hunger
I’m from Lenten incense, shamrock Trinities
I’m from Erie and Éire
from lake perch and cinnakuka
from the shot-up tail
of the Luck of the Irish B-17
that spared by German grandfather
and humid summers at the Shore
when Grandy showed me Saturn’s rings
the long wood shelves above my dad’s childhood desk
held the spiral-bound scrapbooks
with my grandfather’s cases and speeches
yellowed and tearing
charisma my father would never match
I am from immigrant industry
all of us broken
and heartsick for land

poetry

the specific sadness of my father’s legs laid bare

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the specific sadness of my father’s legs laid bare

my father’s legs
bent together knees left
wasted bony
too long to lie straight
in the hospital bed
shins covered with claret bruises
his feet in blue protective booties
heels hidden by white dressings
his skin too thin
to take all the lying around

after visiting hours
my sister and I
apply pressure to
our own open wounds
with a bottle of red

poetry

on going separate ways

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on going separate ways

I expected strained
awkward uncertain unbalanced
tenuous
but was not prepared
for nothingness instead
not even registering
on her map of feeling
I’m sure as usual
he’s disappointed in us all

the breeze settles to a humid stall
and even the waves refuse to break
night bugs keep up their cadence
regardless what I do or don’t do
night deepens
and the days go on

poetry

23 October

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23 October

all day I’ve been silently slipping
in and out of thoughts of you
your birthday ingrained
in my internal calendar
like my first address
a prime number

I still don’t know
what I was supposed to learn or do
what I was asked to give
how I should have changed

no one speaks of any of this here
alone I settle into
the deep confusion
your memory rends
like the sucking fountain
where the towers once stood
the darkness going down down down
deeper than light can go
into a silent still chamber
where no answers wait

after a time
I begin to ascend
glimpse the 3 warm pink bodies near me
throw my grappling hook at any and all
haul myself into sun
with enough strength left
to mumble
thank you for the alphabet soup
that brought five of us
into the light

poetry

into the earth

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into the earth

today I bury
Mary & Will’s son
Patrick’s brother
my father

back to the earth
I give
the man who called me Hon
whose chest rumbled
‘Twas the Night Before Christmas
in my ear every year

I bury snores that shook the house
and the click of the La-Z-Boy footrest
snapping into place

into the open ground
I put the smell of Scotch
and the crack of ice
the scent of Marlboros
and aftershave

I bury our single game of backgammon
and our many King’s Quests

here in the loam
I place Sundays
of Canadian bacon and eggs
glass Pepsi bottles
and the crossword

I bury a rough cheek
and a black fur fedora
with a jaunty red feather
old galoshes and new Buicks

under the turf
among the roots
I lower
our disappointment
yours and mine
at being who we are

today my heart heaps
soothing Walnut Creek clay
to bury the weight of trying
to ask the right questions

now I put the memory
of holding your hand
trying to undo loneliness
deep into the soil

today I bury
Ma’s grandson
Bill
my only Dad