Today it's Cinquain poems. And today I'm watching my father while my mom does some service for dead relatives. If you want to know how to write a cinquain, go here. Otherwise, here's my poem:
Dad
Faded Bastion,
Missing, Crumbling, Fearing
Mind like water through his fingers
Father
©2021 by H. Linn Murphy
And another less cinquain-y:
"Do you want to go to the park?"
I ask, knowing
He doesn't know.
He peers out of his vacant eyes at
A place he's never been before,
Though only two minutes
Since he left it,
Fearing he's lost his way.
Until I mention Christ.
Then he remembers
That's where he's headed
Long trip or short.
"I want to go home,"
He says over and over.
I mistook his dream destination
For an old snowy residence
Forsaken for the warmth
And help of his children.
But he knew.
Christ isn't in the mountains right now.
His parents and siblings
Dressed in snowy white beckon.
How he misses them,
Though the memory of their names
Eludes him.
He doesn't understand
Why those still living are keeping him
Prisoner here
Where he has overstayed
His welcome, he thinks.
His hands and mind soft as tissue paper.
"Swallow your water, Dad.
And let's go to the park."
He dozes in the sun
Waiting.
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