Sunday, September 17, 2006

My Father

By Robert G.Willner

Your face crinkled when you
Laughed
Laughed from deep within,
Your whole body shaking.

Your anger was fierce,
Like the fork
Hurled into the kitchen cabinet.
Did I ever say, “I love you”?

My father is dead.

We never talked.
You told me nothing
Which is what I asked.
We were flowers that never opened

My father is dead.

As a child I was seriously ill.
You came to the hospital,
Bent over my bed
Kissed me – and
Made the hospital worthwhile.

My father is dead.

So much to catch up on
My children and theirs,
Curly headed, eyes gleaming with adventure,
See them
Can I do it for both,
You and Me?

My father is dead.
But it’s not too late
The distance in life was great.
Not having attempted that,
I reach across this chasm --
My father is

Bob Willner and his wife, Barbara, live in Chatham, New York. A father and grandfather, Bob has been an attorney and was formerly president of StageWorks. He has always wanted to be a writer.

3 comments:

Anonymous said...

If I were the president of the writers' guild or the mayor of the small town of poetry, I could declare Bob Wilner a writer. But I'm not. So fortunately, he's done it for himself, which seems fitting. Bravo!

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