My Dad And His Dad

My father is ham,
sliced on the floor. Pulsating.

He is dying.
Without eyes,
without feet,
hands,
liver,
or lungs.

I watch his respiration’s as
they slip, so slowly,
away.

Now is the time for tears,
but where could they be??

He already died in a dream.
When I was young, I watched
his casket get planted in
the ground.
My grandmother was headsick!!
Father was not a seed.

He was a musician,
and a bum with a harmonica.
A bastard!

He watched his father die, also.
His father was not ham.
He was on a rope,
dangling
like a pinata for a child’s birthday.

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28 thoughts on “My Dad And His Dad

  1. Your vision is so sharp, and so hard, that you must be the softest, warmest person on Earth, inside…. You don’t seem to keep any of it inside you…. another powerful piece, my dear….

  2. This remind me of sitting with my dad when he died , at home. He had lost his sight , and speech, he was already deaf., he had been all his life. But I just sat chatting to him. Suddenly he turned and looked at me his eyes had cleared and I feel he saw me…. a smile I am not sure, but then he went. We had convinced my Mum to take a rest a bath , when I
    called her in she refused to believe me until the Dr came and convinced her ………… God! that is a deep close memory that rarely comes up for air … your poetry has a lot to answer for ( in a nice and good way!!) Thank you .

  3. Wowwy, this is what poems can do. If you dig deep into my stuff you may find “Memories of Symborska”….that one should give you more insight into my experience and perspective.

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