Adamant
Bacon and sausage.
Dogs and music.
Whiskey and a wife's smile.
Sometimes, surely,
it is just that simple.
Lately it has not been.
Not in life, not in fiction,
not in poetry.
One year, maybe three poems.
All about grief.
One imagined, yet real -
a son's song for a father's tale.
Two, too true and too close -
a brother to the scion, a brother to the sire.
Tributes written, loss spoken,
still silent the muse,
on all besides -
stanzas only flowing
when so too the tears.
Yet, my life ended not with theirs;
neither will I let my story.
Not my life's, not my characters',
not my verses.
Songs and stories yet remain,
so too adventure and poetry.
Amidst vowing not to forget the fallen,
I forgot those things instead.
that.
They will see my pen fly on,
for thoughts large and little,
momentous and mundane.
No peace comes from staying my hand.
So I will write, today,
of bacon and sausage.
Of dogs and music.
Of whiskey and a wife's smile.
Today, if no other,
it is just that simple.
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