Fathers

A son desires – requires a little of the fires –

that some fathers places upon funeral pyres.

 

Lost to ghostly shadows prowling the hallways of ones mind.

Catching glimpses of, drifting past the corners of, one will find

 

little in them, of substance to tell one just what kind

of man – this man called dad – was / is and no sign

 

that a day will come, when his light, his essence will define

for ones aging soul, the empty places left in the passing of time.

 

I wonder about my Daughters, will they dig deep into the past ?,

for the gold, find fools gold ?, find stories untold, having passed

 

into history and into their presence, as part of the whole ?

Will I become fodder for a funeral pyre ?, or buried in a hole ?

 

B. J. “A” 2

April 1^st 2004