At Last
I should have, in her later years,
danced for my mother,
in jester robes,
to have gifted her a laugh,
to have listened again to the rain draw near.
*
I should have, in his later years,
sung for my father,
a sea shanty’s salty air,
to have gifted him a taste of travel,
a risqué lyric’s souvenir.
*
I should have, in her youngest years,
dressed in a dress for my daughter,
in the style of an operetta,
to have gifted her a foolish aria,
to have held close her nascent fears.
• • •
Permission
In other words, you have permission
to fall back to sleep. Time will continue
to bang its kettle drum, but that’s not
for you to hear.
Fresh bedding is being laid down
for the lions, for the caging of their hearts.
You are the animal silence.
You, who were once the keeper.
• • •
Ken Holland has been widely published in the journals and nominated three times for the Pushcart Prize. He placed first in the 2022 New Ohio Review poetry contest, and was a finalist in Moonstone Press Chapbook competitions; Moonstone subsequently published his chapbook Rust and Slag. He lives in the mid-Hudson Valley of NY. More at kenhollandpoet.com.