My Father

by on June 12, 2022 :: 0 comments

In the beginning
his hum from the other room,

electric typewriter
writing novels,

touch of money,
taste of fame,

alias name
welded with fire,

atmosphere of brilliance
his printed words.

We fell asleep every night
his three sons,
young dreamers
listening to his quickening
constant tides of thoughts,

typing
tapping
dancing
walls heated by his ideas,

ceiling disappearing to sky
visions with stars

disbelief of his sudden death

we continue to write like him,
lightning streaks
lit by our chase of gods.

editors note:

Inspired sons by father’s hum. – mh clay

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