Father

curious child peering from the bedroom door half open standing in the darki watched him he sat in his easy chair right elbow propped cigarette dangling precariously between index and middle finger light from the tv flickering off the walls smoke snaking it's way to the ceiling my Father in his 60's then lost in the vapid juvenality 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 find himself again or perhaps to just remind himself he came to me before he passed and iglimpsed the man i knew was there as he wondered aloud why after struggling for so many years he was rewarded with a failing mind and the loss of a friend 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...

More about me