Cream and coffee in hand,
opening my father’s aged-manila folders,
I discover a side of him I never
knew. Poetry. Kerouac streams.
Joyce-like images and tales of sadness.
Viewing his world through the windshield
of his uncle’s 1933 Buick., what he must
have felt as he watched from the car.
His mother married someone,
not his father. The funeral, it seemed,
was only yesterday.
Armed with his words, I walk into the world
and into my mind. He is ever closer,
17 years after his death.
Messages that bear resemblance
to the stories of the farm and the Iowa
green house. When he took only me,
I fell asleep on the couch tucked beneath
the staircase. My grandmother woke me
for ice cream, but I couldn’t. So, my father
carried me to the pink-quilted room.
It was the first time I heard chirping Cicadas
beneath my window while the white-lace
These are the memories that come,
when the weeds rise up, gentle wild
flowers shelter the walkway.
When the Midwestern landscapes cover
the day and invade my dreams, I discover a me
I never knew, Kerouac streams
Joyce-like images and tales of sweetness.
What I must have felt! An unending journey
through books and a looking-glass world
where all was possible.
A butterfly rests.
How God must love her patterned wings
and Midwestern landscapes.