I am told that I should write
about my origins, that is the stuff that long poems are made of, or rather the soil from which they bloom.
I have written about my birth mother
and visited her grave in West Virginia seen those of my grandparents, met a cousin, I’ve written all of that.
So its time to write about
my birth father, about the places he was as a child, a young man, where he is buried, dead long before
I discovered his existence, our link,
but I know nothing of Burlington, or Camden and my passing knowledge of New Jersey is limited to Newark and its airport.
That is hardly the stuff of great poetry
or even mediocre memoir, so he will be nothing more than a picture of a gravestone in a national cemetery.
Adoption, aging, Death, Family, father, Grieving, Mother, parents, Photography, Poem, Time, Uncategorized
It was a plain white envelope
quite large, laying in the mailbox, a name and return address, nothing out of the ordinary until I realized there were no stamps, just a marking, Postage Paid Melbourne Vic.
Inside was a magazine
and within two poems with which I was familiar but which were now being read on the opposite side of the globe and I had to wonder what the Aussies would think of a crazy, aging Yank poet.
Walking through a nature preserve
like Wakodahatchee Wetlands you must always keep a sharp eye.
The birds are everywhere, they are
unavoidable and even the alligators, imagining themselves coy are
soon enough easily recognized,
snouts appear just above the surface wary eyes scanning the shore.
Here you are also surrounded
by poems, but they are far more able to hide, among the eggs
the wood stork carefully tends,
in the purple iridescence of the gallinule, trailing behind
the uplifting wings of the great
blue heron as she lifts skyward, and in the spray of feathers
the snowy egrets dangle always
drawing our eyes like a bride’s diaphanous veil, but we, at
a loss for words in the midst
of all of this, cannot see them awaiting us to give them flight