Repost in order of his death anniversary...
shadow puppets
My grampa used to throw them
from the lines of his fingers
onto a blank wall, to my utter delight,
in the irregular light of candles
on simple summer nights
when electricity decided
to take up and leave.
Far later there was one other for whom
I took myself upon to contort
(whether to entertain
or out of necessity )
and for whom in my every protrusion
and tuck-under, I still remained formless
(neither angel
nor batwing)
He kept me in comfort and kept me fearing
that he was one found either
in only-light
or only-darkness
and never in between;
so I left for a stretch
making like a five-point star
and did not return.
Back then I could touch the feathers
on my grampa’s flying bird hands,
look into the eyes of his grim knuckled face
and climb the branches of his
sprawling
palm
tree.
Exquisite.
This poem is like its title ... intriguing, entertaining, and open ended enough for ones imagination to fill in the details of the insinuated image. Nice.