we're starting the day with something new. then following with something previously posted. you can call it old, but i call it blue. and now . . .

my father's son

feel the sun grow dimmer, losing at long last
some eerie battle,
flailing like an old man, spent
by years caroused

can you feel it ramble drunken
arguing with the clouds
gone misogynistic
greedy for its own

these are curious days, full of
melancholy, full of jerky bouts of
sorrow, and i sit wrestled raw
in my confusions

where are the beginnings, and
where the ends? or has this
life of ours just leaped its bounds
and we stagger drunken

my father knew his place with
calm certainty, and knew his time
they settled on his shoulders
tailored, well fitted

how can i be my father's son?
sitting in my corner, safe within
its unbent shadows, making my
callings

calling out