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Click hereLike father, like son?
I told myself,
"I am not like you,
you are not a poet,"
but I realize now
how wrong I was.
While I write the words
and soar with metaphor,
you were the one
whose motion
became poetry.
You danced the clouds
with gleaming white wings
and made love to the jungle
with the burning heat
of napalm.
Sometimes your verse
was the dramatic scream
of absence,
and when you did speak
the silence was
deafening.
Mother taught me the love of words and
the passionate rhythms
of Vachel Lindsay,
but I realized
your world had rhythms too,
but when the jungle heard your drums
it burned.
Ah father, stoic poet of the sky,
your passion played
out in the fire you rained
and the gleaming grace
you danced with the clouds.
How I wish my words
would burn as bright
or fly as high.
Like father, like son?