Birds flew over the wooden bench where
he sat tall and simple,
a lump on his throat, wanting to say something special.
There were mad dreams in his mind,
miles, hills, and spread of fields
crossing over laughters and weddings.
Unshaven, red-eye from waiting for that moment.
I ran away to the trip of promise, the highway of rushing machine balls,
leaving the dust settle on the sleepy stones, the burned earth and seared dried bones.
When I returned,
the kites would no longer fly, the wind a soft bubble of adolescent whisper.
A gravity paused,
the skin between spaces widened,
the cracks on calloused hands smoothened.
I breathed the peculiar sound of trees
that had grown distant worlds,
I looked for the young grasses that had escaped wildly on the lap of tempest’s grasp.
I glimpsed a fading silhouette,
an arithmetic and a lost rhythm looking for wooden arms
to hold on.
There he sat tall
and simple,
the words unspoken,
almost, almost within the hearbeat of a son’s hearing.

shared this one too: https://grumpysgiftspoetry.org/2020/07/31/unspoken-maximcartography-cartographysis/
Thanks for being generous with your words.
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Thanks for sharing.
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This is a wonderful poem! Bittersweet lines like “a lost rhythm looking for wooden arms / to hold on” so evocative and moving.
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Lovely tribute to a father.
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Thanks. I am a father now, and our appreciation for this gift assumed a deeper and more profound empathy.
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Now this is an amazing poem. Great imagery and soul!
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Thanks for sharing in this experience.
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Beautiful picture and lovely poem.
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