David Michael Patt
David Michael Patt

David Michael PattDecember 4, 1950 – September 26, 2018

Our father was the best poet we knew. He left behind piles of yellow legal pads with poems scribbled on them. He speaks with honesty, love, and doesn't shy away from the hard stuff.

He will be missed.

Artwork

A dark, roughly modelled torso mounted on a pale wall, its surface broken into hollows and ridges and tapering to a single leg.The same brown wash painting seen closer, the bowed figure dissolving into the stain beneath it.The green-patinated figure from above, her body turning in a long S-curve.A black clay figure reclining in profile against a white wall.The green-patinated reclining figure close up, her arm bent behind her head.The studio table seen wider, a dozen clay pieces gathered on grey paper.The black reclining figure in profile under a hard light.The green figure turned so the raised knee comes forward.A red-brown clay figure kneeling, arms folded over its drawn-up knees.

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Writings

Katie at Seven

She wanted me to keep her Susan B. Anthony dollar. As if it was safe

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William Stafford

Sometimes I carry his paperbacks in my coat pocket and use his poems as guides. In the wind this morning over the apple orchard a hawk hung like a kite.

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Father and Son

When I put in his dentures, his face comes awake. he motions me closer. "I can't walk", he whispers. My father is 93.

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Read all 15 poems