stricken

The stricken birds sing of mortal time.
They are singing very serious songs.
If they could simply sing without stress,
the songs would have no beautiful drama.

I "sing" so obsessively because of you.
And time rushes toward the pale horizon.
And your beauty is on me like fever colors.
Your spirit haunts me like a sigh of death.

to my daughter

When you were born I was buried
under a ton of very harsh colors.
I think I was close to breakdown.
It took time for me to recognize
that an uncanny being had come
woven deeper than blood into me.
Someone who would know my mind
and be a friend and not blame me
for being something rather weird.
Someone who would laugh with me.

You are a woman now, so beautiful.
You are so smart that it is an excuse
for my own dumbass clunky brain --
it's like I can ride on your coattails
and gain plausibility being your dad.

I remember when you were three.
That morning when we discovered
you and I had had the same dream.

I remember when I built you
that swingset and slide thing
from a structure of 4 by 4s.
You had a blast playing on it.
And you could fire a baseball
like a boy, not girly pushed.

I remember that night when you were a teenager.
When that ghost or whatever it was freaked us out.

Okay...that's enough for now.
I just wanted to say, "I love you."

Some more of my poems

Peculiar Moods at Issuu