palms calist
a crooked back,
and silver temples.
shaky like a new born deer,
fragile in age.
wisdom spread across your face
scars spell out your life story
the old blue tin,
my childhood treasure chest.
your old jean jacket,
tall tales of rebellion,
and sawed off shot guns.
singing our anthem
windows down,
smell of the old Cutlass
shameless ambition sown deep
never to fallow,
raised to lead.
hero to my falling city,
saving my world,
and flying into the sunset.
adopted with love,
given his name,
blood meant nothing.
for this,
everything,
and much more
things my Father gave me
thanks isn't enough,
so I'll make you proud of me.
Comments
watching weather....
saw your poem and read through it....moving away for the day
and returning.....the read is like a memory a station drifting in
ghosting in reverb for me......i like the affect...the quick sketch
of details....fm radio when it was still revelant...cutlasses downsized
and the tools of the trade....
intimate and warm...affection and care....driven through the dakotas
long ago and remember the days and nights.....sometimes the
poems are deep with the light being on the surface......this poem
is such for this reader...
thank you
You're welcome.
Has anyone ever told you the way you talk is very captivating.
articulation was a key......
to what i never know.....
its value has not given me a great amount of worth.
but its journey has taken me to much...
perhaps that is the merit of it...
i like writers..poets..
i like people who are skilled
at deft and wit
and subtle...nuances..
this poem i like..
thank you..
poetry as a language
as a child teen young man and now old er man
(49) I see things vividly..creative gift of god..artistic eyes..but i communicate poorly then
poetry was a way ot expression that was a bridge between the far depth thoughts or
masks of denial or hiding and being understood...its taking years to get it to work somewhat
now.....your writing describes your landcapes....napolean dynamite and the cohen bros movie
no country for old men...paris texas from wim wenders etc thank you
Shayne,
another one that I admire. Good job.
Alid
What can,
What can i say other than, if someone had written this poem about me. I would already have been very proud of them. Love Roscoe...
Thank you!
My father is very proud.
Shyanne
Our words are never good enough for those that moulded us into our being, but this came so close.
A lovely tribute to a Father, be they blood or not the love and respect reverberates around the stars,
Yours as always Ian.T
As always
Thank you Ian.