Thanks - writing is a way to get past things sometimes. I think I posted this here once before, but I'll share it again and then let someone else keep this thread going.
Though riddled with cancer, my dad finally gave up the anti-everything drugs that had so addled his brain. His thoughts were clear for the first time in months. Ten days before he died, he and I wrote our only poem together; I started it, he finished.
Of Two Hearts
A poem is born of wordless art
wrapped faintly round its bearers heart.
He contemplates how best to share
the feelings gently pulsing there.
Neath jumbled words and scattered rhyme
his heart beats metronomic time.
As life then flows from heart to hand
the poet pens his verse again.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
This heart that yearns to share its verse
finds that it has a soul to nurse -
that needs its message put to pen.
Thus art, once wordless, strongly speaks -
It comes to life with eager peaks
and shares its authors heart again.
