Poetry Friday is hosted today by Rebecca Herzog at Sloth Reads. She has written a delightful poem about salad. It sounds delicious, except I imagine my arteries clogging just reading the recipe.
Don't forget to check out the links to other participants sharing poetry today.
My father would have been eighty seven today.
He and my mother were on their way to a Masters' Bridge Tournament in San Fransisco when he had an aneurysm and died. He was fifty seven.
He was injured in a logging accident when he was only twenty five. Although he recovered, he used a wheelchair for the rest of his life. I wrote this poem for him awhile ago. I added the last stanza recently, because my father survived that tragedy and came out the other side a better person than he might have otherwise been.
was a logger,
a high rigger,
a faller of stoic giants.
It's perversely fitting
that one of them felled him
a tall, blonde,
heir to kingdoms of possibility.
When gods fall, they fall hard.
couldn’t climb up
into his before.
He raged against
his impossibly broken body
and let dark descend.
took years to climb
up out of that dark
into the sunlight of a new life.
Vestiges of it left him volatile