Writing and the Figures of Life
With breakfast eaten,
Day the height of a regal tower
The day well into half
Well written with my
Stories and fellowship
With world, singing
In the joy of record
Ideas flowing like sand
Through fingers of hands
So small I hardly remember
My little one hand in hand
OH, what a privilege
The memory now gives
So much joy, she accepted
Daddy now the joy returns
As transferred we both
Listen to my eighty-seven-
Year old father, grandpa
Still active, his body
Showing me what will
Happen when I grow
Old, no really old no
Some odd memory
A surface like a dead catfish,
Living next still forgotten
On edge of Racoon River
The other river in the capital
Wher I grew up when my brother
We first held stiff, that dead
Fish; it weighed more than
One hundred pounds,
We let it lie
It was dead, but Oh…
View original post 94 more words