My father is
Warm
Dark
Madeira in his blood, in his
Eyes
Green like pine, like
Chá verde.
He used to
Tap his Vic Furth drumsticks
On my knees
And sing
“Goodnight” to me
By The Beatles when I was
Falling asleep.
My father would
Dance with me in the kitchen
After ballet, or on
Sunday mornings
The light leaking through
And sit on my bed.
He would lean down and
Put his arms around me
Humming
“Good night
Sleep tight”
Strangers’ cigarettes
The bitter backstage smell
And his musty jacket
Swimming into my
Dreams.
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ReplyDeleteHey Patience!
ReplyDeleteI think the layout of this blog is great; I didn;t expect the blur on black to work but I think it's easier to read than I would have thought and seems to fit the theme you're going for. I also like where you placed your "about me" and followers section, they're easy to find and access. One suggestion I would give is possibly using a smaller font. When reading your poems it's slightly tedious to have to keep scrolling down, so I would suggest either making them smaller or spacing them close together.
And of course the writing is beautiful as always. Lovely poems full of images and I can really hear your voice when I read them.
Keep updating!
Liz