He emptied our cup

Of tomorrow’s blood eyed sorrow,

Christened to sup

Under dusk’s bruised halo,

The feast of slaughtered Lamb

Spoilt to a burnt upset,

As the pulpy fat of sacrifice

Boiled up infinite love

In the punishing seizures

Of jealous flame.

The line began to blur

(Scrawled by invisible hands)

And a crucified chalk body outline

Added martyr and menace,

To the pastoral hideaway

Choked by thorny breach.

The betraying kiss,

A spear of nettle

Through royal hyacinth.

I could do without

podcasts and reels

they have stolen seconds

& many conversations

leaving my heart half empty.

I miss us before the algorithm knew you better than me

before the internet became

a living thing

breathing down our necks.

You always know all the stories before I can share them.

Always in two places at once

one foot in the cloud

the other tethered to my heart

like a forgotten balloon that somehow still has air

still holding onto

the last breath of us

This is not an ideological endorsement or political speech, but just a simple wake up call to the immeasurable value of humanity that we must raise above wars, assassin’s bullets, morose tragedies and other perils.

Nobody wins in any type of war.

The collateral damage cuts through bone, touching

the soul.

Perhaps the political climate is inherently engineered to pit person against person, when partisan ideology is worshipped more than both God and loving our neighbor as ourself.

I don’t believe we should be blind to ongoing corruption and injustice that can straddle both parties, but we must divorce internal upset from hate, and utilize our humanity with composure.

For what it’s worth.

We learned together,

together we failed

and together we rose

until the end of our days

when our stories were old.

But, in that moment,

we were just kids,

sharing the gift of being friends.

This constant state to recreate

Dominates the majority

Of the human race.

But perhaps this is the way,

This constant striving, trying, reaching...

To just be,

That is the blissful way, yes,

And it holds sometimes, for a bit.

In my pangs of want,

I'll think, maybe I could do it better.

Make me better.

But I like surprises.

And I'm waiting to see

What I'll become.

the old oak tree

with a hollow trunk

and a country lean

finally felled

by a storm most mean

just a big ol' pile

of wood chips now

a void in its stead

ashes to be spread

Maybe when you find someone else to fall in your arms

my heart will sink, a stone in a bottomless sea.

I know you'll be happy with anyone else but me.

Because I was never your missing piece

just played a part of the brushstrokes hand

like a violin that created our children beautifully.

The sounds of good-bye begin to echo in my heart

and, in my silence, I stare into the night.

Do I love you?

I love you just enough to let you go.

Just enough to know that I will always miss you.

The shadows of yesterday creeps over me,

The music draws to a close,

The melodies echo how love once burned.

The sounds of dawn begins to fill my soul,

The music of hope, the dreams of tomorrow,

Are now but fading echoes

Playing within my empty soul.

The sounds of good-bye echo

And as I remember the shadow of your smile

My own tears begin to form.

The shadows of yesterday remind me of all I am,

All that I have become

Since the day you looked my way.

I dare not say how empty good-bye feels

Or how shallow life now seems.

The sounds of good-bye echoes in my soul.

I never said how much I needed someone

Or how I thought it was you.

The shadows of yesterday burns the memories

Of your eyes peering into my soul

Along the edges of my heart.

Do I love you?

I love you just enough to let you go.

Even if it is at the cost of my soul

The sound of good-bye lingers in the air

and now that I've finally learned how to say

I care

I've lost you

To the shadows of all our yesterday

And the tears we have tried to hide way

The sounds of dawn begins to fill my soul

And I must learn how to face it alone

For I loved you just enough

To let you go

I remember the look on his face.

I couldn’t have been more than nine years old at the time, but I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget the look that crossed my father’s face on a Saturday during an eventful afternoon in August of 1967.

A year prior, my father had packed his bags and left home unexpectedly, giving no forwarding address. My mother, at the initial onset, understandably had been horrified. How would she manage? She had no formal education, no self-sustaining type of employment, but she had two children, aged fourteen and eight, for which she must provide food, clothing, and a house. Fear became a very real, palpable force that invaded our tiny house on Canterbury Street that winter. The meager forty dollars my father would infrequently send my mother (through a local attorney, all the better to ensure his continued privacy) managed to pay only the house note. Still, my mother, struggling, alone, and afraid, became a substitute teacher and managed to earn enough income to put food on the table, pay the house note, and buy fabric with which to sew clothes for us. Needless to say, being the younger of two sisters, I wore a lot of hand me downs. The best thing I remember about the year that followed my father’s departure, however, was that we were able to eat all the spaghetti we wanted. My father disliked spaghetti, so when he’d been home, my mother never cooked it. With his absence, we ate spaghetti at least once – if not more – a week. To this day, it remains one of my favorite meals.

I apologize for I have digressed from my opening sentence. I felt a need, however, to elaborate on the premise provided and offer a bit of background before I continued. I promise to get to just why I remember the look on my father’s face more than I remember any other particular thing.

It was a year after he’d left home that my father returned. Being only nine by then, I was delighted and hopeful with his arrival. Not so much my mom, and certainly not my sister, who was determined to never, ever forgive the man who dared to call himself ‘father’. Of course, my father had returned expecting a glorious reunion that included moving back into our home. My mother, much to her credit had grown wiser – and so much stronger – than at first. Much to my father’s chagrin and increased anger, she put a halt to his moving back into the house. Still, he continued to visit, both to see his children and to bully my mother into changing her mind.

It goes without saying, and even my sister would tell you it was so: I was my father’s favorite. I was the child he often, especially when drunk, called his “eyeballs”. I suppose that’s country talk for ‘the apple of my eye’. I’m not really sure, but speculation has led to such a deduction over the years.

We lived about forty-five minutes away from the Atlantic Ocean, so visiting the beach was a common occurrence, especially in summer months. This particular Saturday, my newly returned father had indicated he would pick me up and we could go to the beach. I was ecstatic. I remember waiting and watching for his car as I played outdoors with friends, my swimsuit worn beneath my shorts and my beach towel by the front door. I was more than ready.

To the best of my memory, it was well past four o’clock once my father finally pulled in the driveway. We were all outside – my mother, my sister, and I. Extremely excited, I ran to hug him as he got out of the car. Being nine years of age, I should have recognized the telltale signs but maybe I was too excited. My mother, on the other hand, long having been subjected to my father’s use of alcohol, must have seen (and smelt) its effects immediately.

A detailed conversation between my parents ensued and escalated quickly into an argument. My mother forbade my father from taking me with him. I don’t remember her citing the alcohol as the main concern, though I know it was. I think she was probably too frightened by his proneness to anger, and understandably so. It was also, unfortunately, a very different time (in the 60’s) when people drank everywhere: at work and home, on the streets, in their cars, and in the local bars. My mother’s main argument was that it was too late to go to the beach. There would be no reason for such a visit since it would be dark by the time we arrived. Whatever her real reason for arguing, she stuck her heels in and refused to let me go, and I am left to wonder if she, in fact, saved my life.

My father’s alcohol induced rage grew with the repeated denials to give him what he wanted: me. In his rising anger, he lunged at my mother, striking a blow so hard across her face she fell backwards, landing on the ground just underneath an oak tree in the front yard. Her right shoe, as a result of the force, flew across the leave littered ground. In horror, I saw my mother lying on the ground, struggling to stand, and my sister, crying where she stood on the front porch. Without another thought, I picked up the displaced shoe and flung it as hard as I could at my father, striking him dead center in his chest, my young face contorted in anger. He immediately stopped mid-sentence and mid-stride where he stood. He stared at me for what felt like centuries. I don’t remember what I said to him, but in fierce defiance, I stood my ground and yelled something at him. I swear to this day, if I’d have had more shoes, I would have thrown them all at him no matter the outcome.

Yes, I remember the look that crossed my father's face that day oh so well. His favored “eyeballs” had seen him in his truest form and in defense, had managed to kick his ass, at least as much as a nine-year old child armed with a single shoe could. It was an eye-opening moment for the both of us; a reckoning of newly imposed adulthood for a mere child and regret and shameful awareness for a sad, disillusioned man with a horrible disease.

I am proud to say that my mother chose to deny my father's return home and eventually divorced him. I know the fear she must have had in making such a profound, revolutionary choice, especially during that day and time. There were many instances when we didn’t have much food or couldn’t afford to do things, but because of the decision she made, I have always been amazingly proud of her persistence, strength, and growth in the face of such adversity.

This may not be your average Father’s Day recollection, but I fear the prompt given initiated the memory that unfolded herein. I pray others are more fortunate in their accounts of wonderful, wise, kind, and supportive dads. As for me, I am thankful instead for lessons learned, both in childhood and adulthood, as well as a mother who filled in for a father when needed and the amazing men who helped me much like a father would through the years.

“I am still learning.” Michelangelo