My Father’s Son

Too much for words,
and yet I can’t keep silent.
Though your silent embrace,
nearly more than I can bear,
is not so much as to silence me.

In my darkest hours,
my highest flights of fancy,
my deepest falls from glory,
you are there to stand by me,
to pick me up,
dust me off,
wipe away my tears.

In your embrace,
all things melt away,
too frightening to shudder,
too immense to shirk,
too cold to shiver,
too hot to sweat.

Yet you are never too much.

I've been to degrees of self-doubt within
	that tasted of anger and horror and sin.
I've wandered in longing for places unshown
	and hungered unsated for savors unknown.
I've been to the Valley of Innermost Doubt
	and heard myself mute while I felt myself shout.

I've listened in valleys for echoes unsung,
	for echoes reply, but initiate none.
And I've searched for the melody deeply within
	whose rapture could conquer this echoless din.
I've screamed in my silence and covered my ears
	and listened for noises bemuffled by tears.

But I've seen in the shadow of colorless fear
	the glimpse of a rainbow, the taste of a tear.
And I've heard in an echo as faint as a moan,
	a beautiful song that I'd swear was my own.

When the earth was young,
I was a breeze
that pushed the sea upon the shore.

When the waves had kissed the land
some many thousand times,
I then became the wind
upon whose substance flew the birds,
carrying their songs of life,
and seeds of life, the pollen of the trees,
wherever whim would lead them.

And for those trees to sprout,
the flowers bud,
and fruit to ripen,
I became the rains that nourished their roots.

And I carried the perfumes of the world for all to enjoy.

When first you walked upon the ground,
I cooled you in the summer,
and I fed the flames of your hearth in winter.

I became the matter of your language,
and I facilitated your communications,
your collaborations, and your creations.
I was the medium
through which so many a happy thought was devised.
And I was your laughter,
to share the joys of life as it is lived.

Later through me were sent the storms of dissent and protest,
of hatred and prejudice.
I carried slogans and propaganda,
and I bore the weapons of murder,
that took the lives of so many a youth,
who had not enough seasons to enjoy the treasures I bring.

And today, what am I?
I am the air which you breathe,
that brings you life:
Let me live in peace!

I am calm now,
gentle as a breeze that is hardly felt,
who wafts silent odors of budding roses
and rosemary leaves from a distance of miles.

Now I am that breeze,
and my song is that of tiny birds,
together in a nest,
waiting, almost patiently, for worms;
but not worms of pain and sorrow,
worms of satisfaction,
worms of delight, delicacies;
for tiny birds, as children,
who sing a song of their own choosing,
can find delicacies and beauty in all things.

I wonder at the world beneath,
	for I am far above.
I marvel at the clouds around,
	for I am deep within.
I seek to find the man I am,
	now flying in the sky.

The lights I see,
	illuminate the ground,
And each one brightens someone's life.
The land I see,
	it reaches on forever,
And each stretch another story,
	another patchwork quilt of tales,
	a history, its own.
How many lives have lived,
	that this one spot has touched?
How many people pass this light,
	and never see its miracle?

And now the city...
	we prepare to land.
This moment I shall not forget.

Outside, the snow fell while I was unaware.
Inside my mind there was no place for snow.
Is it not so, that for each one there are many worlds?
Can we inhabit more than one at a time?

I felt confused, almost hurt,
that the snow would fall without me.
And yet: am I responsible for the snow,
or must it answer to me?

Should I not delight in the independence of snow?
Is that not its right?
Should I not cherish the world that surprises,
and covers its tracks in the snow?…

“O woe betide the day I die,”
the hermit cried aloud.
“Thou first must live,” the cave replied,
“ere death come ever nigh.”
“O woe betide,” the hermit sighed,
“thou, now become my grave.”
O woe betide, o woe betide,
the hermit died, the hermit lied:
The cave remained a cave -
his life became his grave.

But she who lives until she dies
lives thus much longer still.
For in the heart a memory lives
whom Death can never kill!

And what of noise?
Is it not the crickets’ song,
to crick, crick, crick, all at once?
A seeming chaos!
Such repetition, such noise.
-And one dies out:
I can notice it; I do notice,
as if there were some reason,
as if a single cricket matters.
But the sound itself, it continues;
it pleases me not.
I long for a silence.
Perhaps not silence,
but music, order.
The crickets scream to be heard.
I envy the crickets.
I want to scream.
I almost wish to be a cricket:
that screaming “crick, crick” …were enough!

I love to walk in torrent rain
	and watch the people run.
I love to talk in torrent rain
	to myself or anyone.

I love the colors streetlights shine
	against the grayish sky,
Where sovereign clouds direct our eyne
	to view the heavens fly.

I love to taste the rainy air
	and puff a misty sigh.
I love receiving zany stares
	from sober passersby.

To me is rain a mirac sight,
	mysterious and proud,
The drops that bend unbending light,
	the clouds the sun enshroud.

A miracle, presented once,
	allowed my thoughts to thrive:
I saw Death Valley rainy once;
	I've seen the rains alive!

If ever I had time to tell
the passing of a day,
A genie grant me such a spell,
of what things might I say?

Of lizard tongues and butterflies,
the rustling of leaves;
Of images in cloudy skies,
and what one there perceives;
Of speeding cars and traffic jams,
and all the dirty air;
Aluminum recycled cans;
the passing county fair?

Of all these things I might bespeak
before my time were through.
But most of all my pitch would peak
when I bespoke of you!