Of Mountains and Men

When I was four, I could remember your stature

You seemed a mountain in my eyes


Exuding perfection


When I was seven, I remember hearing your rage

Aimed dully at the world, but focused in on me


I remember taking a quarter I’d found

Only to come home to your undiluted ire


It sat like a hot stone in my front pocket,

I told you I found it


The next day I lost it.


When I was twelve, I remember feeling hot whips of metal

Stinging with cadence as the percussion of it rang out


I never mentioned your age again


I was torn between who you were and your reflection I’d caught.

The small fractions of you that leaked out

in the moments you were there


I clung to those, thrown in and dampened

By the spirits you soaked your soul with


I was afraid of you and proud of you


Now you sit in front of me, an iceberg


You were broken, how did I not see.


The age of nineteen offers a hazy clarity,

Now you cling to me, borne against the current.


You were never a bad father, only a circumstance

Of the decisions that broke you


The alcohol did not waste you, but offered solace

Where life had taken root and spoiled


You’re still the mountain I thought you were,

Only I’ve reached your summit


The peak of what you are and what you will be

But mountains do not grow, dear father


Mountains endure.



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allets's picture

Let The Poets Poet

You amaze me with insights - painter or poet? - Both! - allets



palewingedpoetess's picture

Powerful imagery.............

If this is a true story told then I commend you for being able to summarize so beautifully an otherwise mournful tale ah but if you merely imagined this and wrote this poem from pure imagination then you are a far better poet with a range to be admired in one still so young. Either way, as I stated at the onset Powerful Imagery.......... truly! Sincerely, Melissa Lundeen.