My Father’s Music

My father’s music
Percolates and palpitates
Like hot coffee dreaming
A tap dancer’s arrival
Hitting throat with the
Right note, going back,
Deep, unopposed, unoppressed
And unsuppressed

My father’s music is
Caught in a kettle whose
Grease endured screams
And flame of gas stove
Decisions where curling irons
Bent notes and contemplated
Hooks landing on the chin and
Announced its verdict on a
Rippled canvas shackled to
Freedom

My father’s music is
An empty cup of my
Favorite things where soup
Is made from pain and
Love is made from rain

My father’s music is
Made in wood when he
Would then wouldn’t then
Would again and would
Is softer than stone and
Woodn’t you know it?

My father’s music is the
Chamber of cool, poking
Into the greenness of the
Sun’s estate of ecstatic
Static

My father’s music
Is sky minus rain
Divided by sun
Multiplied by incense
In the smoldering
Pyramid of branches

My father’s music is the
In-time pantomime of
The heaven-hell debate
Whose defense rests
On the 8th day

My father’s music floats
And glides and slides from
Head to thigh and on that other
Side where up is down and down
Is up, sticking like flap jacks
Whose wings lap lap lap the
Tick tock oil of greasy time

My father’s music
Skips, bumps, burps,
Slurps, sizzles on the
Sunny side of the street

Crackle pop
Bop
Pan fried
With an
Egg on
Top

That’s my
Father’s
Music

© 2016 Tony Robles

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