128/365

my father spoke to me through song,
not ones he wrote or sung,
but the ones spinning on the record player,
he was into classic by the time cd’s
were in fashion and i was out the door
into adolescence by that point,
and i don’t have to tell you that music
doesn’t have any lyrics.

my father spoke to me through song,  
so i don’t remember too many (any)
deep meaningful conversations--
although he always felt so expressive
in his journals and on the canvas,
and he was a master in the darkroom,  
i don’t remember any birds or bees,
nothing about how to be a good boyfriend,
nothing about how not to chase popularity,
don’t get me wrong:
he was able to
verbalise i love you
and i knew he meant it so i felt it
even through the wine and the beer
and all the rest of it, but what
i remember most was that

my father spoke to me through song:
        close your eyes. have no fear.
        the monster's gone. he’s on the run
        and your daddy's here
i don’t remember the hugs
or the tucking in and kisses goodnight,
but the surrogate records were always spinning
        our house is a very, very, very fine house
        with two cats in the yard
        life used to be so hard
        now everything is easy
        cause of you.
guitars. drums. bass.
candles. empty bottles.
the endless night.              
        mr. tambourine man,
        play a song for me. i’m not sleepy
        and there is no place i’m going to.
        hey, mr. tambourine man,
        play a song for me. in the jingle jangle
        morning i’ll come following you.
the playlist is too long for any one poem
        you are young and life is long,
        and there is time to kill today.
        a working class hero is something to be.
        it's better to burn out than fade away.

the few scraps of conversations have faded now
like wisps of burnt papers snuffed
into an ashtray, but the songs remain.
each one lodged in the places where
there would have been emptiness
if he hadn’t been careful.

i try to have the meaningful conversations with my girls,
and there are hugs and kisses, tucking-in
and there’ve always been stories,
but sometimes when the sun is setting
on the highway, and we’re driving home
from a long day, i’ll crank the car radio
to fill the silence    :
        rebel girl, rebel girl, rebel girl
        you are the queen of my world
        i’m so hungry, hunger makes me a modern girl

all a father can do is plant the seeds
and hope that they bloom.