My Father’s Son

On yellowed leaves of ancient lore
I found a tale from long before:
An aged man, who tilled his land
And sowed his seeds with chaffed, bare hands.

You must believe my word in this;
The manuscripts no more exist:
As ashen forms once touched do fall,
Of what remains, the dust is all.—

The seasons changed, the air grew dry.
His health had waned, his end drew nigh.
His plantings, they were yet undone;
He would not pass ’til there were none.

His hearing failed, his eyesight dimmed;
His beard grew long, no longer trimmed.
But still he waited for the rain;
He would not pass before it came.

He would not plant in arid earth:
For seeds set dry give barren birth.
And yet he sensed his time draw short—
He’d soon depart this earthen port.

The mud from foot of former stream
He scraped with care, as were it cream:
And in his palms transported so
This dampness for his plants to grow.

The moisture spread enough apart
To urge the budding sprouts to start.
Ere all were set he’d not retire,
Lest in his sleep his air expire.

And so prepared to meet his death—
And thus expelled his final breath:
“These plants whom now I know as seed—
Though I’ll ne’er see, shall bloom indeed!”

—You must believe his heart in this!
The old man can no more insist:
As forms decayed on touch collapse,
His dust is all we can yet grasp!-

I would that I were young as you,
Yet with my years could see.
In youth I’d hear applause to be
for nothing much ado.

Oh! Though this body wax and wane,
All time in God is one:
So He creates us young again
In forms we hold in loan.

Then fade this carcass long away -
I fear not such a day -
In you, my son, my life remain
Till you be born again.

Against that time, friend, persevere!
Of dying, never fear.
When you perceive death drawing near
Hold not this earth too dear.

When I consider all the time I spend
Upon the battlefield of common strife,
Unhappy for the lack of time to rend
From history the mysteries of life;
Sad images appear within my sight,
Of labor crippled men, whom time forgot,
Whose god afforded them one simple right:
To hope their children reap a greater lot.
That time, which I esteem as mine, I know
To be the debt I owe these crippled men.
This loan they gave to me, I give to you,
For god gives nothing, but doth only lend.
	Because you live to read this verse today,
	I, all myself, had gladly passed away.

That the birds are in bloom,
	and the flowers fly,
That the trees sing love songs,
	and the sun sets out new roots,
That the sky ripples at the toss of a stone,
	and butterflies drop their leaves in autumn,
That the grains of water are too hot for bare feet,
	and the sand too cold for swimming,
That our house is truly a castle,
	and milk the wildest feast —
All these I see in your eyes when you gaze them into mine.

1)

A pen had beckoned once before,
and now a keyboard calls.
Technology dictates little,
though at times it seems it’s all.

Yet within, beneath,
humanity lies.
Ourselves we yet and still
remain.

2)
It is late
or early.
I hear my child,
my baby,
in the other room,
coughing.

He does that
in his sleep,
as if to check that we are listening
to his voice
yet silent of words,
still speaking of his will.

To think the new-cut grass is high,
Like an ant beneath the sky.

To smell magnolias as bitter,
Like a skunk straight from the litter.

To see the sun with blinding fright,
Like a lifelong troglodyte.

To feel a warm touch as deceit,
Like a dweller of the street.

To be so hellbent in our hate,
That we blame it all on fate.

It’s nothing novel anymore,
it’s passed from new to boring.
I wonder when I’ll get it back,
that silent spark of longing.

The triumph of the spirit … sags.
The pomp and fanfares … mumble.
The time that once sped by … just stumbles.
Hilarity that once delighted, now appears a gag.

I know this passing day will pass,
this cloud of gloom will dissipate,
and so I wait,
until that time arrives.

Oh, had I eyes to see,
see all,
and ears to hear,
hear all,
a heart to feel,
all, all –
and yet — and yet
no tongue to speak,
Were I as an exile,
forced beyond my will
into silence –
A silence from which
perhaps, there is only hope;
for nothing long endures such silence –
Or, if it does,
it is like the blind fish
who dwell in the waters of a cave,
eyes still there, but no use to them:
appendages of futility.
Here, is my tongue like such an appendage –
groping in blindness for the words to express
all that lies silent in my soul.

What have I here,
to hold me near,
to tarry more my weary flesh?

Does time stand still
while he lay ill,
for me to watch in silence?

Yet groans I hear,
and moans and tears,
and silence too invades my ears.

Yet sit I still,
though not so still,
as restless as I bear.

The time draws short,
I know,
he knows.

Yet silence keeps us still.