Friday, December 5, 2014

He's ascending into the arms of his muse, his mother

The lamp swings like a pendulum
                                   Pictures sway on their nails
Then slip down the walls, leaving scratched trails
Amidst the quake, the grief, the confusion and scare 
Slowly ascending is my father's armchair

And beyond all these outlines of what I see there
Beyond the sofa, the knickknacks, the old furniture
Light pours in, and it paints something new
It reveals, it unveils at this moment a clue

The clue to a presence only he could once see
A presence he longed for, because only she
Could call him back home, and envelop him so
Touching-not-touching, her hands all aglow

These pages, upon which he'll never scribble a line
Are floating out of shadows, into the shine
Only she can now read the blanks, she and no other
He's ascending into the arms of his muse, his mother.


★ Inspired by poetry? Treat yourself a gift ★

"The book overflows with some of the most eloquent poetic moments in print."

My oil painting, depicting my childhood home at the time of mourning for my father
This is part of the cover art for Home

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