Thursday, June 20, 2013

My Father’s Child


 
My father’s child
was not beguiled
by paucity.

He liked excess.
He liked the mess
that bled and sped

in wild illusions
bred from his
enumerating head

like coiled snakes
in lapidary curves
of the Baroque.

My father’s child
could not not choke
at falsity. Whatever

wasn’t dream
could not be true.
My father’s child

was not like you,
or me. My father’s
child had mystery

and has it still.
Sometimes I feel
his spill – his

history inside my
curling mind.
Quite something

to wake up
bestride a predawn
hour to find.






.

1 comment:

Bibliotroll Jack said...

Very Strong poem. I love it and I can relate!

Thanks--Theo