Fathers
Fathers
A son desires – requires a little of the fires –
that some fathers places upon funeral pyres.
Lost to ghostly shadows prowling the hallways of ones mind.
Catching glimpses of, drifting past the corners of, one will find
little in them, of substance to tell one just what kind
of man – this man called dad – was / is and no sign
that a day will come, when his light, his essence will define
for ones aging soul, the empty places left in the passing of time.
I wonder about my Daughters, will they dig deep into the past ?,
for the gold, find fools gold ?, find stories untold, having passed
into history and into their presence, as part of the whole ?
Will I become fodder for a funeral pyre ?, or buried in a hole ?
B. J. “A” 2
April 1st 2004
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