Last night, my father’s ghost floated by
much as a dead leaf would drift
after losing its summer grip
and I’m not sure why, except maybe,
possibly, to see how I was doing, having
lived longer at this point, than he did.
There were no words, acknowledgment
of any kind and then his ghost was gone.
I wonder if he sensed my sadness?
Jim Senetto about Jim Senetto
My father was quiet; loving, provider but quiet…I never knew a grandfather, his side, or his brother lost at 28 and I was told not to ask. So quiet I was…me, the quiet one, second echelon in a group of friends…quiet in the confessional booth I was brought to…why tell a stranger, in a dark booth sitting behind mesh, my woes, thinking it just might be his woes were worse than mine (I’ve later learned, some in collars should have sat on the other side of that mesh window, confessing). I was drafted in ’66, taught how to kill strangers and my mouth began to question why and with some friends now dead from bullets of insanity, I became alive, vowing never to be as quiet as my father. He had his reasons, I’m sure, old school and all of that, but I had to break the chain. Art, photography, music, poetry is my voice and it’s all fair game…say it loud, some will listen and that is good enough for me.