my Father wrote poetry in younger years of love and loss of joy and fear i discovered his work tucked away in a drawer castaway drifter returned to the shore
who was this man of sentiment whose gift of prose is long since spent who spoke so rarely and laughed not at all i knew him not beyond the wall that stood in stone grew stronger with age his soul now resides in this book on this page
"Over here"... but nothing. The scene continues unabated by my presence. Plastic smiles and lustful eyes bountiful but not for me..never me. In the mirror' s unforgiving gaze I am unrecognizable Replaced with a crude rendering of my previous likeness fashioned by children with lumpy imperfect clay. Silence replaces loving laughter that used to follow my witty banter. Silence and stares. Sympathetic stares tinged with smugness and fear. "Over here...over here..." still nothing.
I recently received a message from a composer named joe drzewiecki who was interested in putting this poem to music. Here are the results. I didnt know my words could sound so good. Thank you joe drzewiecki, I am flattered.
I saw the tears trickled down his face Just like a spared crystal Unrecognized. I saw his fist, trembling As if he clutched his own heart inside it Shattered. I saw his lips, shaking As if he can't let out even a single sigh Unheard. I saw his love Like a moon It's a Castaway.