I have written before about my father, who was a poet, and who taught me much about poetic forms. I wrote this in 2003 about him.
Like men of old prospecting for their gold,
he shakes his sieve to rid it of debris
while searching for the nugget he will hold
within his hand. Poetic filigree,
the lacework of his mind accepts the gem.
For him, no imitation jewel will do,
only a diamond for his diadem.
A starry sky of words makes its debut,
and he peruses midnight’s offerings.
Which blessed candle of the night to choose?
His mind insists upon the flavorings
that salt a common phrase. He will excuse
words begging for some space upon the page,
but when, like ancient wine, they underline
the secrets in his heart, those words engage
a thirsting reader. Sterling pieces shine.
Accompanied by silence, his thoughts rise
to places uninhabited. The first
to lead where others will not formalize….
Look how his scintillating poems burst
into the company of masters. O,
the satisfaction of his lifetime quest
for words that edify, provide the glow
of sunrise, meditation manifest.