Like Father, Like Son?

Like 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?