My father died when I was seven.
Like a girl in a museum I'm drawn to his pictures - those inadequate reproductions hypnotize me.
What can pictures give? Coal-blue eyes, a knowing look. They exist, for me, like Cassandra of troy, full of endless secrets that can never be told.
A snowy, ice slick, twilight blue rush hour parade - hundreds of grimy cars rushing, rushing... somewhere.
Why do the details I can't remember haunt me so?
A flash of light, the tearing of metal like the screaming of dogs in a reeling, devouring dance of energy.
The nuclear family detonating with death inches away.
Everyone was asking, 'What do you remember'? 'I don't know', I said.
Sometimes, as I fall asleep, memories of him - which I hold dear - come to me like the ghosts of departed friends. Image after image in the embracing dark.
Why is it the further away you get, the more I need you?
Those images and that voice are strangely silent in the morning as I'm, once again, awakened to a world I'd rather have different.
'The problem of distinguishing between further and farther is compounded by the fact that each of these words can be an adverb, adjective, or a verb, and has multiple meanings in some of these parts of speech.'
another alliteration (I think it's ok there is a break in the allitertion) : 'detonating with death' Do you 'see' ghostly images of 'departed friends'? ?
I like the alliteration here: 'devouring dance of energy.' I THINK part of your poem is fiction. Am I correct?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I will not vote any # of stars at this time; 'the jury is still out'. bri : ) IF PH had deactivated this poem, as anais told me, it certainly is in place at this moment. bri : )