London is Calling

I fell into a daydream last winter. The last thing I recall, I was cozied up by the fire with a good book. But now, all I see are rainy days beneath strange clouds. Murky liquid flows in the river Thames. I step out of the red phone booth. Ravens are feasting on leftover tea and biscuits. I see the Union Jack waving in the wind coaxing me to get closer. There are black cabs and red buses. They fly by in a frenzy. People are honking their horns– a traffic jam. I flash to Poppies. I’m ordering fish and chips. I have a handful of gold coins in my hand. The streets welcome a stroll as I eat. I walk for ages, through ages. But then I see white stone columns with iron gates. Buckingham. The Queen’s Guard is changing. I join the other tourists in awe. “Ello, mate!” cries an overweight American. Departing, I venture to a public garden. Kensington Gardens. I see the boy who never grew up encased in bronze. He is to live through the ages long after I’ve gone. I listen to the ducks in the waterways and the fountains hum. It is serenity, pure, and blissful. Whimsically satisfying. And hopelessly romantic. If only I can stay a bit longer this time. There is still far more I’d like to do. But the study window blows open. The flames choke out. And my cat, Peter, knocks over my cup of coffee. And all I say is, “God save the Queen!”      


Paperbacks, Hardbacks, and eBooks. 
Their white pages remind us,
of the person in the mirror, 
before a few words changed our very lives.

You find escapism in the printed.
What a profound impact ideas can have on us all,
whether they be fictional or reality. 
To books, they are everything.
The taste of a fresh baked peach pie, 
or the way the snow flurries in the winter.

Writers have a responsibility.
We entrust in them without knowing,
and in moments of darkness,
we lean on them without permission.
How impolite of us all?

To the many, I say thanks.
To myself, I smile awkwardly.
The world is a far better place with writers,
whether you wish to argue or not.
They transform our hearts, 
and leave them,
more whimsical than before. 


Dearest Father, 

I must confess the eternal emptiness since your passing.    
A year has faded in events that I find difficulty in comprehension.
People swore it'd get better, but just as interest compounds, so does hurt. 
My memory cannot allow me to forget the unresolved matters and move onward.  
Our final words, my abrupt goodbye, and your faint dying breath. 
I didn't want to let go of your hand. Ever. 
I sat and studied your face. I needed to remember it in precise detail. 
A collective of tears and tissues, we wept for our loss.
I was selfish. I wanted you to stay and bare the pain.
I feared that the agony of my loss was greater than that of your cancer.
And I learned in death, it was your salvation. 
You're no longer suffering, you're free to be.
To roam with the buffalos, where the wind wanders.
I reflect on life's matters ahead. 
I practice remembering the memories with cheer.
You are who I look up to, who I want to emulate.
And I'll never forget who you are. 
You're always in my heart... in life and death. 

Your Loving Son