Saturday, September 12, 2009

(High School) cryings#2 (to Kathy)

in the clouded-over moment
of blind wanderings
of pointless struggles
(o dont get me wrong
i gasp the brittle breath
my flesh turns blue
like theirs)
i sometimes pause.
in my own mire to
think of you
you stand
in the still-same mud
im standing soaking in and
tho you smile you
know muds mud and
yet you smile...
dont know and
yet i know you smile.

bob terashima, 1966

My Father's Father

My father's father lies in bed,
his form molds faintly through the sheets.
Laid bare, his head
upon the pillow holds the cracking of his age:
the suns that summered over fields of beets
and dried him out.

Strange. I watch him breathe slow mouthfuls
down his sleep. The drought
for life that parches at his lips
is strange to me;
I do not know this man who slips
away to death.
And yet, I grew up in his withering days.
I heard the shuffle of his feet through empty rooms
he waited in, and felt his gaze
grow hollow. Sometimes, when he smiled
his crooked mouth at me, the quiet growth
which fed upon his sorrow showed its roots,
and I would wonder why
I couldn't love my father's father.

Now I know. And now, as both
his dying and his living days are planted
in my mind, I wonder why
in time before my time, he sailed the sea
between himself, his wife and son, to dry
in fields of beets.

How he came to live with us
I never knew; just
that his strength was cracked,
and he had come to suffer through a wait
that only death would rid.
(I could have loved my father's father,
but my father never did)

bob terashima, 1966


  1. Wow this poem of Bob's needs to be published. Oh yeh, that's what you just did! Thanks for sharing (where is Bob now)?

  2. He's a Pediatrician in West Jordan, having succumbed to his parents' pressure to pursue something that could make money. I don't know if he still writes. I hope so.


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