The Man without a Face

two poems about my dad

Upon the rocks of Chester Creek

I am made from a man
I know nothing about.

A man that left
when I was three.

No letters, no pictures
nothing, but
the memories of young hippies

in their time of love, peace
and weed.

They remember his smarts,
the curls upon his head
and the laughter he brought.
I remember, nothing.

Then one morning in my 30’s
I woke with a memory
of the man I look so much like.

I dreamed we watched
water tumble
the rocks of Chester Creek,

side by side we stood
until I looked up
and he was gone.

Later, I asked my mother
to tell me a memory.
Then I shared mine.

©River 2013

The Man and his Story

The blood of my father
came here from the rocky shores
of Ireland
in the swinging days of dance.

His parents migrated
to breath in freedom
and begin again
changing their ways
or at least that was the plan.

Decades flew by
and a story emerged
riddled in dead ends
and despair.

A mother and son
had no choice but to run
always one step ahead
changing names, city by city
a deal made is a deal done.

So, six years pass and they still run
from their Irish Mobster past
until the mother suddenly dies
and the son, my father
finds his duty finally done.

He ventures to the Rocky’s
for another degree
where he meets my mother
and their one night leads to me.

By three he was gone
amidst his past path of shadows
a man I only know
through the stories others tell
did he run from the mob
or run out on me?

River 2014




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