Sunday, November 16, 2014

My Mothers My Fathers

William S. Burroughs, my father

Harry Crews, my father

Charles Bukowski, my father

Sylvia Plath, my mother

Anne Sexton, my mother

Anais Nin, my teacher

Teaching me

All the understanding of a woman in love

A woman in lust

These writers and many more were the family who never changed their opinions

They were friends to me without conditions

They never left when times grew hard

Never needed more than their books to be read

Their stories to be told

My literary family

With their worn-out covers and tattered pages

Still sit on my shelf

Waiting to whisk me away with words of truth

Of betrayal

Of redemption

Of love, or the lack there of


What a wonderful world to be lost in      

My family’s all gone now

But their footprints of words I still follow

Just a closed cover away

This poem is from my book : Petals Falling

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