My father is the one I loved the most.
The clouds are sweeping and the holy host
of clouds are weeping on the picnic grounds
where the alarming sirens pierce the clouds
and dampen the rockets sputtering on their rounds
where those before me saunter in their shrouds
as the electric sailor is struck dead
and bobs towards mainland. Soldiers fetch his head
and the words spread over the ground without a sound
that whistles through the whistling where I found
him waiting there to carry in his arms
the wounded through the flashing of the storms.
poem by Ben Mazer