black book

Curious child peering from the bedroom door half open standing in the dark I watched him as he sat in his easy chair right elbow propped cigarette placed between index and middle finger light from the tv flickering off the walls smoke snaking its way to the ceiling my Father in his fifties then lost in the vapid juvenility of Hee Haw my Father whose poetry I had discovered tucked away out of sight, out of mind the little black book where he kept his soul waiting if he ever decided to return or perhaps to just remind himself In the early stages of alzheimers I saw him cry for the first time wondering aloud why, after struggling for so many years he was rewarded with a failing mind and the loss of a friend left behind in a black book a friend I never knew

Deckard

I began writing poetry when I was a teenager and it truly saved me from a destructive path. 'Time Heals' will be on my grave stone'. I have 3 incredible kids who are the greatest gifts that God has given me. If I have advice to give to aspiring...

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