Old forgotten poems

 In college I wrote many poems. Most are forgettable or a still frame of a moment in a young life. Some were beyond the experience of a college student. As I look back and re-read the poems, a few take on a different meaning as a father.

Sons in Search of Fathers

why do my

feet

traverse

paths

of my fathers

father

running over

foreign lines

tripping

down the ruins

of time

not knowing

where

I step

each step

threatens

to throw me

off sharp clifs to

jagged shored

line with thick seaweed

I'm running

on

the walls of blood

through Greece

and back to Rome

Why do fathers

shed

their shoes

and walk on

jagged stones

can I see

the painted shores

will I

mend

his punctured feet

can I

ever

hear his voice

guide me

through his streets

did he

melt

his shield and blades

to forge

an ax

to chip away

to make

of mounts

of hills

of glades

a brick

with which to lay

can I hear

his

silent feet

walking down

the foreign lines

from land-to-ship-to-land

again

with ax

to build

again

Age & Time

The dictionary on the table

was once smoothe and shiny

new without a wrinkle,

but now the spine is arched, worried

as an old man, the corners are dull

and staned, the cover peeling

curled like a wave, falling

to a tumult, rolling

back toward the spine

as slowly time

shows its face, but within

the cover the words are fresh

the letters fine, beginning

to end, each word defined, interwoven mesh

of pictures that long to be seen.

Her Son

I can't remember ever holding him,

shaking his hands, kissing his cheek

I don't know that he ever held me

and told me that he loves me

as a good father

he bled his hands to feed

my mouth, clothe my back, lift

my shoulders above his,

bearing my future, while his

faded until he had no light except mine

I practiced day and night to make him proud, but

he never saw me play

I never saw him smile, he doesn't

say it, but he wanted to be there

more than I wanted him there

he scrubs the dirt

from others' suits and blouses, serving

other quietly, serving me forever, never

asking thanks, never

paining or playing as he dreams,

each time I pick up

a brush, it is his hair that guides

my eyes, each time I

pick up a pen, it is enamel

that slides the pen, each time I

pluck a string, it is his house

that sings, he doesn't say

it, for he has no words

to say,

when I see his brow wrinkled

with pain and frustration, I know

he will not burden

us, he is a good father, full

of pride, full of love, full

of hope for his children, yet

the children are his wife's and not

his, he has few memories of

the past and fewer of the future, but

as a good father, he

is selfless, without a name