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About This Author
 Writing poetry allows me to exercise my imagination and share it with others. I strive to write for the benefit of the reader using carnival fun mirror images of my life's experiences.
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| The first time my eyes learned of his face, Was from his obituary's strange alien picture. His silence echoed through my ear's inner space, Like the rhythmic preaching of God's holy scripture. Just a newspaper scrap resting limply on my fingers, Lifeless yet pliable like the newly dead young. The vacuous fragrance of pulp faintly lingers, Dry, like sea salt on the buds of my tongue. I've naught for my recently passed father of birth. Naught for the mask that resembles my own. Any chance for connection has lost all it's worth, Gone are the blooms from the seed he'd sown. In honor of Patrick K. Stephenson, March 18, 1936, to May 14, 2015. My birth father who I hadn't seen since I was given up for adoption at the age of three.
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