They would always say look dear boy
Do not wish your life away, looking within
Themselves with a look of regret.
They are all just yellowing pictures now
Peering eternally from the top of the piano.
Occasionally I softly finger the dusty Ivory
coloured keys, It does not matter
That the sound is strained and out of tune
It’s the vibrations, deep and reverberating.
The centre picture holds my fathers face
Wind swept and happy, my mother loosely
Holding his hand, she had no reason to think
Otherwise. Looking at the photo, it’s hard
To hate him, at that moment, under a
Crumbling roman ruin he made my mother
Happy. He is saying something to the camera
And I am sure it’s not a drunken “fuck you”
Inocence
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2 comments:
Vincent, this is an excellent poem, beautifully crafted and very moving - as are all the poems I've read so far on here. You are full of talent. I hope you are sending away to publishers...
I'm adding a link to your blog on mine. (I also notice you added me - thanks for that, I didn't know).
Hi Vincent, I just found your site via Wendy Mooney. I really like your work, it's from the heart, the home of all poems.
eddie stack
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