Thursday, August 21, 2014

Perhaps at last he can feel her

This is the place where he put pen to paper... 
But clung to the wall, the shelves are now bare 
All that remains of his words is but vapor 
All you can spot is but a dent in his chair 

He used to sit here, here he would stare 
Years come, years go, an old clock keeping score, 
He would scribble his notes, crumple them in despair 
Waiting for his savior—but locking that door 

That door sealed him off, away from all danger 
Except from the depth of the danger within 
No one could intrude here, except for the stranger 
Who would carry him off to where his end would begin— 

The poet, who’d mourned the loss of his mother 
Would then, somehow, be reduced to a child 
He would crouch at the threshold, and call, call, call her 
Knock, knock, knock at that door; no more stifled, but wild 

This is the place where he put pen to paper 
Till the door opened, creaking on a hinge... 
Locked in embrace, perhaps at last he can feel her 
No need to cry now, can't feel that twinge

Detail from my oil painting, My Father's Armchair. You can barely see down at the far depth, but hiding in the shadows is the entrance door to this place, where I grew up and where my father spent the last twenty four years of his life, alone.

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