Srping 1986, Volume 3
Poetry

Paul H. Johnson

My Father's Hand

Life draws its closing upon us in unsuspecting ways
From our first awareness of
Wrinkles, gray hairs and grandparents.

 But we are the perpetual children,
The ever-young, the unaware,
Unprotected and unready for the dying.

And so we look again for our parents, remembering their
Busy meddling and over-concern with our lives, wondering,
Were they ever young? Do they even remember?

How quickly it all passed, from
My mother's death to my father's deathbed;
Why can I not bring him back to give him just
One caress for all of his that I ignored?

How do I tell him, in one pride-transcending touch, that
He is my hero - my world? If love be pure, give me, for just this last, enduring
Moment, one final touch of my father's hand.

Childhood Legacy

So lonely do you sit
Placed in the corner of a room
In a proper chair facing an empty wall.

Your feet will never reach the floor
For you were so placed for your
Childhood Sins
And have been sitting ever since.