My Father's House

My father's house is always warm these days.
The air budges past me like a pick pocket
Fleeing the scene when I enter,
Guilt is evident.
The street outside slides in, temporarily,
Engines, dogs at the leash and car stereos
Bustling through the lounge.

My father's house is always warm these days,
I acknowledge as usual, the timepiece.
Its devotion,
My dependency.
Though deliberate, the pendulum, once a
Strathspey and jig
In crisp Glaswegian "tick"
Now calls "hush" in a rustle of crinolines.

My father's house is always warm these days.
He sits there amongst his new collections,
Lame memories,of
Insurmountable meals,stacked in a plastic box Everest,
Matters of bills, doctors appointments,
Nagging away, corroding pleasant thoughts,
Christmas cards addressed to both my parents,
That serves to remind him again,
That his soulmate will not read them.

My father's house is always warm these days,
His latest acquisition follows him around
Unless his memory calls him away.
His walking stick, he proudly made
The hours he poured into it now paid back in loyalty,
An outlet for his anger
A rest for his chin.
Then for no reason he says,
"Black-thorn, my dear is uncomfortable to harvest and rare to find."
I notice then, its
heavy head and the supporting side branch handle

Poetry by 1LFD
Read 79 times
Written on 2022-01-13 at 10:52

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one trick pony The PoetBay support member heart!
A sublimely stunning poem.

Griffonner The PoetBay support member heart!
So beautifully written! It pays to read it more than once - perhaps repeatedly - not only because one sees more within it at each reading, but because (for me) it so so pleasing to feel those lines smoothly enter my mind.
The final stanza is a gem - not for the clarification of the poets intent in writing this, but for the way they do it so subtly.
Repetition in poetry can sometimes be irksome. Not in this.
Bravo 1LFD!