The Conversation

“I know that I am a prisoner to all my father held so dear,
I know that I am a hostage to all his hopes and fears,
I just wish I could have told him in the living years.”
~ Mike and the Mechanics – “The Living Years”

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Your passing was whispered to me.
It was in the morning air as I stood
Anxious and uncertain upon foreign soil.

Stilted conversations, childhood realizations;
After years you were the center of a symphony
Looping unceremoniously in your aftermath.

With a stifled tremor I kissed your lifeless forehead;
Watched you burn; carried your ashes in an urn.
Consoled your father in his relentless grief.

Who were you Papa?
I often felt you were a vile and selfish man.
We loved you in spite of you, and yet
It would seem it mattered so little.
You in your solitude,
Your stubborn wasted intelligence,
Loyalty only to intoxication.

Yet you shine in fragments still.
You blessed my heart with Africa.
I saw sober shades of a lovely man.
We cherished music, we danced,
You made us laugh; at times
You were a father, even a husband.

I only wish I could trace
Those moments that corrupted your soul;
That tainted your heart so much so
That you were blinded to all you possesed.
“What a waste,” they said — and I concur.

I know not if you’ll ever know what you put Mama through;
What you put us through.
A relentless submission to life’s betrayals —
I question every bit of light.

I wish we could talk as men
As we did when we last spoke.
For, Papa, I cannot help but feel
That with each passing year
I am you at the crossroads,
And thus a stranger to myself.

I do not mourn your loss,
Though I must confess I miss you.
But how can I when I am your son?
You are stitched into my being,
And perhaps you were the ultimate sacrifice
For me to learn and grow; for me to know real pain,

So I can be true to myself for as long as I live,
So that I may be the man you ought to have been.

The author’s first paperback book of poetry on sale at Amazon: Whisperings

shanil samarakoon