of poetry

a quiet man he was the smiles were rare signs of affection non-existent yet his soul came through his goodness his quality his concealed intelligence I can see him in his sleeveless tee shirt cigarette in his right hand and a pen in the left doing the New York Times crossword puzzle at the dining room table he would watch Jeopardy and reel off the answers one after another he had survived 3 heart attacks diabetes and emphysema years of working 2 jobs to support 8 children but the alzheimer's was unforgiving and eventually wore him down my father like his son had buried a facet of his early years his gift for verse which I had discovered unbeknownst to him before his passing in the early hours of a Winter's morning I heard him call my name from the foot of the bed I take it as a sign that one day we will share our love of poetry Side Note: Recently, my youngest daughter brought to my attention a poem she had discovered and loved. It was by Ezra Pound. I researched Ezra Pound and discovered that he was arrested in Italy for opposing Capitalism and brought to trial in the United States. His lawyers pleaded insanity and he was committed to a mental institution in Washington D.C. That mental institution was St Elizabeth's Hospital. During his entire stay, my Father worked there. I picture them in my mind sitting at one of the benches in the yard swapping stories and talking poetry.

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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