At rest. Eyes closed, lips closed.
His hair…long gray strands swirl
To touch his ears and disappear
With subtle shadowings.
His hair…once red, now rusty white,
Too neatly combed with finite care.
But a slight blush of
Dusky blood wins through as
Stray strands reject discipline
To rest awry.
He sleeps in his silk-smooth
Casket, gun-metal gray.
A flag drapes polished steel.
Grandchildren solemnly pace,
And smile, and weep, and smile.
We resolve to walk
His footsteps, share his love.
We look one long, last time,
And leave. He rests, eyes closed,
Palsied hands now calm and still.
Author notes
On the death of my Father. Over twenty years ago, but it is still a major moment in memory.
A contest entry
- Loss by TheGangstress.
450 points, ended January 12, 2008, 16 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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Grief and loss are two intertwined yet incredibly different subjects, and I'm getting more grief for this. Loss kind of is grief, but it also is the regret, the anger, the sadness, and everything else. I like the poem itself and it flowed very well, but unfortunately you have not followed all the rules so unless you can fix it soon, you won't be able to win.
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