A Father’s Final Hours
You owe me nothing for this,
for sitting here, hours upon hours, while
the minutes slowly creep towards eternity’s door.
No, there is nothing you need give to me
for these fingers kept clasped in yours and
the frequent caresses across your paling skin.
I ask for nothing in return for staying beside you
while you now can no longer fight, no longer hit, or
yell, or terrorize. You owe me no apologies now.
You couldn’t give them anyway, not with so many
tubes and wires trying to keep you tied to the earth.
You have no obligations or debts left due to me.
But if, in a few moments,
when you face the God that gave me to you,
you want to do something for me,
you may tell God that I forgive him
for letting you do what you did to me.
Plenty Of Room In A Beautiful Sky
In the strange astrology of what
pretty girl is a star today, you wonder
if you have the right hair color, wonder
if your waist is thin enough to make you
part of some greater constellation
someday. You forget that they sky
is so infinite that never will there be
enough human beings to out number
the real stars in it. So pick yourself
your own star, design your own galaxy,
and don’t worry about the TV. The sky
is outside waiting for you to shine,
to create a constellation of your own,
even if only you and the sky knows.
The heavens have a space reserved
for you regardless of hair style, clothes,
and looks. It is a VIP reservation in
the galaxy of perfection and your ticket
is based on exactly who you were born
to be and not on who you were told
to become. Come outside, and take a seat.
There is a place for all of us in this infinitely
diverse and beautify sky.
Isabel Sylvan lives along the Raritan Bay where she writes both poetry and fiction. Her work has appeared in numerous small presses throughout the past twenty years. Currently, she is the editor of Poetry Breakfast, a daily online poetry journal.