My first poem came in a flash,
like lightning from nowhere,
about my daughter and her dog,
then a short one on fishing.
Want to hear it?
FISHING:
On the way, we took a wrong turn.
We will catch and clean certain fish
instead of others.
A comment on fate, humbling me now.
Bed-ridden, poems keep flying forth—
verses on ironic lives,
broken families, unsung heroes,
death and immortality.
My children gave me a yellow pad,
I scribble on the paper, can’t hold the pen;
they let me dictate,
sit with sad, smiling faces,
copy down my words.
What will my last poem be?
Will anyone publish it?
Do I care any more?
Thanks to all the poems,
lighted on my mind
like birds singing
in an evergreen tree,
makes dying easier.
Originally published in Dreich Magazine