G A M A

(a memory of a place)

written by my father...

Running my fingers through your hair
And tipping your brow.
I only hear the river murmurs,
The parallel of waters cascading
Rhymes with the throbbing beat
Of this sobbing heart
Though silent as it was lonesome
Birds sing a melody unrehearsed
To a drifting leaf, dancing
And receding upon my sight
Foretelling the coming of fall
On early summer.
Should I call this day mine?
The hills, the proud breasts of Kanlaon
I quivered of your avowal.
Should I say, I love you,
And be released?
What arrow doesn't point their poison of mercy
And forks at me.
This incidental get away
Of February's last heat
And days that recedes
Perhaps in parody of pursuit
For long-gone yesterdays
Days when I was young
The last nerve gasp for guts
I am beyond my written ode,
I am beyond the lamentations
Of somnambulistic
Sleepless nights.

- Feb. 28, 1981