A Poem for My Dad

One year later.

If I Were a Bell



If I were a bell
Was the song playing
When my father died
The machines turned off
The lights dimmed
I held his hand

There are so many ways to have died
Like Crispin Glover’s hand
In Hot Tub Time Machine, it’s coming off
Sooner or later, the bell
Finally ringing, the credits playing
Us watching as his breath dimmed

The monitors dimmed
My father died
With only Miles Davis playing
One hand on his trumpet one hand
Ringing the bell
And my father was off

If I were a bell
If I were a bell

If I were a bell
I’d be ringing

It’s not a sestina but it’s not not a sestina. It’s sestina-ish. My dad loved Crispin Glover. Who doesn’t?

Today is the year anniversary of my father’s death. He loved poems, and he loved when I wrote poems, even when they weren’t very good. He was very proud of me as a novelist, but I think if I’d really been a poet, professionally so, he would have liked that even more.

A friend of mine whose mother just died said, it would never have been enough time. That’s exactly how I feel. It wasn’t enough, but it would never have been enough.

This guy wrote (and read) some poems.