Some Last Things
So many words to say now he’ll never say though
he feels their weight in silence, though he needs
their meanings, he knows he won’t find them,
still they bite at his tongue – what he once questioned
he knows for fact, what he once believed, he’s long since
forgotten or dreamed away – if you whisper your truths,
they’ll disappear, he’d say, so he never whispers them –
and when he does speak, his voice is the wild thud
of trees falling, oceans from here in cool shimmers
of rain, in the hot curl of asphalt, in all the time needed
though there’s so little now to do, and he’s prayed deep
into the hole of his aching, but that’s not how it ends –
in a hush, in the beetle’s scratching at the baseboard,
a bullfrog’s croaking from the dark rocks in his pond,
his cane leaning against the opened window
“A poem for my Father,” writes poet Sam Rasnake, “A piece that’s as important to me as anything I’ve written – or could most likely ever write.”
First published at fwriction : review.
I’ve had the honour of editing alongside Sam Rasnake at Blue Five Notebook for nearly two years now. Sam recently lost his father and I place this poem here as a tribute to both men. Sam Rasnake is a legend. And I reckon his dad was too.
Sam’s poetry hits me hard every single time. The man’s whole heart and mind goes into it. There is never sticky sentimentality in his poetry, but honesty that will make you weep. I especially love the lingering images of last stanza of this poem — that hush, and the quiet of the beetle, the bullfrog and the cane.
For more Tuesday Poems, go here.