A poem about my father entitled Imperfect Beauty took second place in the 2009 San Jose Poetry Center's contest, and will be published in the upcoming issue of Caesura.
You can enjoy the poem below:
Imperfect Beauty
I think of my father while waiting
at the City Planning Department—
only one person in line, still it takes an hour
to finish this permit business. Details,
payment of fees, plan-checks for plumbing,
fire, electricity. He would have liked
this pamphlet entitled Green Building Glossary,
about flow-reducer fly ash, pressed earthen blocks,
straw bale, bamboo. The country is crowded,
he knew, every inch governed, cross-checked,
built to survive earthquake, hurricane, loss.
So he found his own patch of ground,
thirty-eight acres bordered by national forest.
I remember him waking sleepless nights
with a design in his dreams—hexagons—
which he built by inspiration, irregular,
marvelous. A small village, with rooms
scattered across the hill like mushrooms.
That winter when the inspector came,
eyed this assembly of queer huts,
no house in sight—he had no clue
what to do. But hand on red-tag form,
hesitating as snow began to fall,
my father winked, said I’d sure hate
for you to get snowed in here. Anxious,
the inspector closed his pad, nodded,
headed back down the hill never to return.
Years later, when my father too had gone,
I considered the efficacy of grief’s
permissions, plans, the effort
to bolster sagging foundations,
rotted stairs. If he had built better
grief wonders, but what then?
All things end, there is no blueprint
for loss. But in the hexagon of my heart,
I still build his way—sturdy enough
for dream, for imperfect beauty.