-Morning-
Birds sing.
Their chirping does not rouse
Gently
But abrasively
Because I want to be deep in dreams.
Your warmth only reaches
So far;
I have to make contact
To sate this
urge.
When our skins
Interact
It’s as if I feel you from the
Root first
To the tip.
You are so cold
In parts,
But our friction is like
The lightning strike
And our scents–
Emergent ozone.
Here are two poems I wrote in a corona format (I think)
[one]
So delicately you fingered the ivory.
Your fingertips exuded love
In ways I’d never seen before
I was in awe of your command
I was in awe of your command
I wanted
So desperately
To be your instrument
To finger
With love
To finger with love
Rapt with lust and awe
I couldn’t contain myself
any longer
So when you began your song
I disrobed
And spread
Between High and
Low C
Your compass points toward Middle C.
So delicately you fingered the ivory.
[Two]
The water rushed down the curve of your bust
Steadily
But one drop lingered
On your horizontal peak
It swelled
It swelled but fell
I caught it with my fingertip
And returned it to it’s home
We mingled
We mingled
Convex to convex
But down the shaft of my finger
You dissipated
Absorbed by my pores
Absorbed by my pores
We were one
Within
And without.
My fingertip caressed your peak while
The water rushed down the curve of your bust.
My loving father,
There is a thought that crosses my mind on a rare occasion, and it is disconcerting: I don’t know you very well, Father.
To me, you are like some great mythical figure. You have lived a life of adventures I know very little of and would never relate to because they cannot be replicated. Maybe you do not think back on your experiences as adventures. Maybe you do not wish to think back on them at all. I know you don’t take pride in any awards received from your time in Vietnam. Most of what I know about you has been relayed through Mom. She is like an intermediary in that…another way in which you are like a mythical figure. There is an aspect of you that is untouchable, to me.
I want to know you, Father. I want to know of your childhood. Maybe you do not wish to recall it. I do not desire to upset you. But your story is a beautiful one, and I think it deserves to be told.
I know your life has not been easy. But you have survived. You are still here while so many others are not, Father. How did you arrive where you are today? What were your dreams in youth? What did you think of your parents or the absence of them? What did you long for, and what do you desire now?
You did not have a pristine childhood, this I know, yet you managed to mold yourself into a very respectable human being. Your agency, your individual power and strength, amazes me and inspires me. Without the example of an ideal father, you became one. Perfection is a non-issue. You have done everything required of you as a father and beyond. You have provided for your wife and children. You have supported us. You have given us more than adequate housing and food. You have given us even the trivial things we’ve desired. You have worked so hard. You have fed us, clothed us, and provided means of transportation. In a materialistic world, you have given us all the basics and more, and yet, you came from very little.
I am so fortunate to have you, Father. You have given to us, your children, all that you can. And beyond that, you have sacrificed. You ask for so little. I am ashamed at times for how I displease you and how selfish I can be.
To me, you are an individual who was born into a third world environment, escaped it, and succeeded within a first world environment.
You are my hero.
My greatest shame would be to not accomplish half of what you have in life. I am so sorry for ever disappointing you. And I am sorry for not working harder. My life is easy in many ways and hard in others. I feel as though I have no right, though, to say my life is difficult and to use that as an excuse to not accomplish things. You have sacrificed so much and worked incredibly hard to provide a simple path for your children in life. You’ve endured much while I feel debilitated over the slightest thing.
I want to be stronger for you, Father.
I have not made this known, but I am so grateful to have you.
There are times I contemplate you and mom aging. It is a thought that has at times moved me to tears. There is immense sadness that comes from the idea of you and her growing older. This is a fact of life, though. And it is my attachment and desire to keep you forever that leaves me dissatisfied because it will never come to be.
For a while I have thought of myself as a late bloomer. I have felt slow and sluggish. But in looking at this optimistically, I feel I have something wonderful to offer. I am not the only one who shares this idea. I want to make you happy, Dad. I want you to be proud of me, your child, your daughter, and I want you to feel peace in knowing you no longer have to provide for me any material means.
I long for you to be at peace at this stage in your life knowing your children are fending for themselves. That you only have to watch and participate in what brings joy because you have earned this.
I am lucky to have you, and mom, two parents who care so much about us, their children. I only hope that I never forget this for too long, that it may be a regular visitor to the forefront of my mind.
It may take a while, but I will earn the effort you put into life and into the lives of us, your family. And I hope that I, too, will be able to give to my own children someday.
I love you very much, Dad. All my successes and all my triumphs are and will always be for you.
In love and grace,
Your daughter.
