A Poem for my Dad

The Saw

Hold this, my father said,
Meaning the board he was cutting
For another project he would never finish.
The silver-toothed saw snickered and whined.

It was his way, I guess,
Of reaching out. I saw nothing at all,
A small boy who wanted only
To go out and play.

© Glen Fisher

Pomes, unfamous ‘cos unknown

Then there are the poems – pomes, John Lennon called them – which are unfamous by definition, since they never were published, or submitted for publication.

This is a conceit, of course – these poems like their published cousins would doubtless be languishing in the same dry obscurity even if they had been published. Still, it’s a nice point to make – you know, I coulda been champion of the world!

Here’s one of them.

The Journey

Some journeys are a metaphor, and this

Just past, continues in my mind.

It’s true, we’ve travelled down this way before,

But love sees more when love is blind.


The journey outward seemed like a return.

Once in the air, our thoughts turned south.

Though coming home was leaving all again,

I touched your knee, and longed to kiss your mouth.


We both knew better. But who cared?

Time heals, it seems, but does not cure.

A different kind of truth was bared.

We said goodbye, but wanted more.


My darling, though you are not mine,

My journey has a different aim:

To leave until you give the sign

That brings me to your heart again.