My Father’s Hands

I seldom write long poems. To be more truthful, I write long poems, then whittle them down to their essence in editing. I rarely end up with a long poem. This poem resisted my fanatic drive for a sparse aesthetic. To many, this may not seem like a long poem, but I consider it to be about as long as a poem can be and not end up in the trash bin.

While I’m on the subject of editing, I would like encourage any reader, who happens upon my poems, to please feel free to comment or send me an email. I am eager to improve my writing and feedback is important. My muse, my lover, gives me good feedback, but I suspect she is biased.