Email Poem

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Personal Note:

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Poem

(a love poem for my son)

Dreams spill out of sleep
sift across the hardwood floor
covers the window 
in colors of May

slamming me back towards childhood
or perhaps just to the ashtray.
One forged with labor
in elementary school ceramics;

patient fingers size up,
roll the earthen clay,
pinch it to perfection,
this unusable object

is made with skill,
crafted uniquely for my father.

A tribute greater than mountain carved faces
monuments of life’s reward.
Baseball camps, tee-ball games,
selfless Sunday morning catch,

sitting in question 
understanding Auguste Rodin,
your etched piece of history
proclaimed in this ashtray.

The long afternoons,
bedtime stories,
day dreams of musketeers
tree-forts and bandaged knees,

wisdom contained in a receding hair-line
without the restriction of bookends.

This is your medal
placed with vigilance
impatient in time
yes, a five pound ashtray.





Reflections of your accomplishments
schematics of fatherhood, fired
painted with magnificence 
useless to anyone but you.

Standing at the door, a lone sentry
hands outstretched boastfully,
here is your prize
an ashtray!

The reception of kings, grins of rum soaked pirates,
you calmly seat me down with the tale of tradition,

rite of passage
generation to generation,
the tribulation of the ash tray
passed from father to son.

Thirty-something
as I lay in bed
the warm morning symphony
shines bright upon my medal

like a polished chrome hood ornament,
I too have taken my place
	among the tradition of the ashtrays.

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