Broken Consciousness

My book’s called “Broken Consciousness” In forms
from sonnet, triolet and villanelle,
I’ve written of the shoe that drops, the bell
that signals epileptic seizure-storms.

This is my infant book but not the last
that I will write. I plan another one,
some poems of my father’s so the sun
can dawn on them, and others will be cast

in my own words. I’ve written now for ten
years. Why? My father took the time to teach
me classic forms. “Be bold,” he said, “and reach
high for those writing stars.” And so the yen

began in me. My father, gone three years
now, won’t be present when I read and sign
my books by end of year. I hope the line
will be as long as memory that cheers

me in remembering his lessons that
made him my influence along with Frost
and Sandburg, Whitman, Wordsworth. I get lost
in words that speak to me and tip their hat.

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