Lamentations of a Son.jpg


The winter of ’17, my father died. It propelled me down a path I had long dreaded but could never have fully comprehended. In the midst of that freefall, I grabbed anything that was still firm-family members, dirt, my Creator, memories and, oddly enough, poetry. This genre seemed to possess the ability to define that which I could not. The effort to write it, the articulation of it all, gave credence. The existence of words on paper that one could see and feel with fingers gave voice to that great vacuum.

Some of the poems to follow are the outworking of that grief. Having discovered this new language, it was natural to pen musings on other subjects. I have tried to cast them in some semblance of order.

Robert Frost once wrote “The utmost of ambition is to lodge a few poems where they will be hard to get rid of…” May you find one or two of these difficult to remove.



It’s 2 AM.

I lie here

Listening to the cadenced

Respire of my bride

The air

Purses the lips,

Makes its

Splendid journey

And returns

I wonder

What visions

Lie behind

The shuttered


She speaks!

The tongue

Unhinged from reticence

Erupts in freedom

I listen

With stiffened body

To her uncensored


“Rex” was first utterance

My weak heart missed a beat

But then my world imploded

With the words, “I smell your feet”

Since my Father DieD

Since my father died

The farm seems hollow

As it calls out his name

Like a lost child for its mother

The long bond

Formed a generation

Has been broken

As the land yearns and weeps

They shared a love

Few have known

An intimacy

Built on reciprocity

As each gave all he had

For the other

And reveled

In the sacrifice

It grows again,

For him!

A bounty year

It is!

But his eyes

Are not here to see it

Nor his callused fingers

To rub across the kernels

As in all the years past

I weep with the land