Talking To My Father Whose Ashes Sit In A Closet And Listen

Death is not the final word.
Without ears, my father still listens,
still shrugs his shoulders
whenever I ask a question he doesn't want to answer.

I stand at the closet door, my hand on the knob,
my hip leaning against the frame and ask him
what does he think about the war in Iraq
and how does he feel about his oldest daughter

my sister whom he loved so much,
getting married to a man she met on the Internet.

Without eyes, my father still looks around.
He sees what I am trying to do, sees that I
have grown less passive with his passing,
understands my need for answers only he can provide.

I imagine him drawing a breath, sensing
his lungs once again filling with air, his thoughts ballooning.

Reviews

[Matching Socks]

Wow, great write darlin'
So much to be said and is said too late unfortunately, but talking is good. :)

[Tai Ryens]

It's the general aura of this piece that stands out, the handling of a normally grievous and heavy matter in a somewhat gentle way with a sad undertone and implications that things are not going well at all. The speaker, in their bubble of shock trying desperately to keep the world from turning, still keeps their deceased father in their life in an attempt to do just that, even when the world continues to turn (evident by the sister's marriage and current affairs). Welld one.

[Emily B]

my father never talked to me while he lived, we have had so many more conversations since he died

i feel this one deeply

[anne]

wow...so nice to read....so well collected thoughts and squeezed in this wonderful poem.. :)

[Leslie Philibert]

A remarkable poem, universal and very personal at the same time, with a great central image.

[Lyn Anderson]

This is a very nice read, with a sad undertone. Well phrased and put together. I would shorten the title however, leaving the "punchline" inside the poem, but that's just me.