In February 2001, when I was thirty-three, I wrote this poem for a creative writing class at Pikes Peak Community College in Colorado Springs. Rereading it twenty-five years later, I found it speaking to me in a way I never intended when I wrote it. Chris left us in 2024, and as I read these words again, I couldn't help but think of his struggles in life. I didn't know it then, but I was somehow writing toward this outcome. I dedicate this poem to my son. You always live in my heart, Chris. Love you, Dad.
He lays down the paper, saddened by its bards,
Distant, silent, lonely and still from its words.
'Tis your knife drove deep in his shoulder,
It twisting with every line,
As a tear forms, now he begins to pine.
The rhyme rolls silently, the melody, it is clear,
With each tick of the clock, it is playing in his ear.
With infinity distant lass, and the journey long past,
He watches as eternity passes with the sands of the hourglass.
'Twas he tried, or at least he believed so,
The pantomime of life, so vibrantly he towed,
The wine, the song, and joy flowed free,
The melody, the dance was a tune to see.
Now all is quiet and all has past,
Alone he stands in the quagmire of his past.
Memories for friends, letters, and poems for words,
'Tis all that is left to remind him, and be solace.
by Alan
