The most recent time -
a hundred miles an hour so fast
through a tunnel
with more darkness than light
partial light - into the dark,
until the end of the road to The End
but that end was Dark. So.
Turn off the engine.
Wait.
A woman. Gently. Eat this - honey.
Her voice, such sweetness: drink this: water.
Dim light: some loneliness, some joy.
My father dances with death
The way I dance with life -
One foot in and one foot out.
Except, says he, the day I first made him a father.
At my birth, he saw nothing but Light.
Such is the naked power of the babe
the miracle of dark tunnels, a bit of light
and then the screaming.
When her father died she
shreaked
the howl shook the house. the chickens squaked
and the dog cows horses neighbors joined her inner chaos.
No attempts to hide (control) just
intense pain
if only she had left earlier but he
was healthy not that long ago -
There were (always?) so many if onlys
After his father died he
wrote and wrote reams
pages of poetry and scribblings
that which was never able to be said.
And now he talks to his dad,
Casually, with ease, and openness, and simplicity.
he says,
My relationship with my father is so much better
Now that he is gone.
When his father died he
sank to his knees in relief
let the sweet salty breeze wash over him
at last it was over
years and years of holding on
both men finally free
(The tears came later
when his cat passed over
he could barely work
the house was so empty
without her quiet)
She often wished
her father would die he
never said anything of kindness
she kept near but he never
said those three words -
the writer had no articulation except in tears
she could only keep working - hard.
When his father died he
was lifted, Ennobled
His father's grace, glory, beauty
passed like a torch
into his very being and he
stood taller, wearing destiny proudly:
to be the son
of such a great man. Now even his stride
sang his father's tune.
When his son died
the marriage followed suit
the house left not long after
and the cacti in the desert
heard his song of heartache
its sharp needles and sweet flesh
bore witness to life (what was left of it).
When he finally left the desert,
it was with the cacti's small bright flower in his heart.
After his father died
he watched them. Those two
little boys now shining into
strong reeds of manhood with their
white suits on green grass
fierce concentration
generous laughter - such fine qualities
Here, for once! (and forever),
he loved - and loved well.
At least his father,
(who had always found a
few quiet moments
for his frantic mother - now not even he
who fits into the old man's suits
wearing well the protector's steady posture
can ever fill
that empty space
next to his mother
she now sits alone.)
got to see his sons like this:
growing.
The first time
my father played with death
I had no experience of
growing.
That came later.
Then, it was more like
being buried while breathing.
Even so from my father
who flirts with death like a lover
(his favoured danger-pleasure)
Death, who won't ever leave him - not like
the others -
my father
(who hates hallmark holidays)
my father -
ah, bless him.
for those hard-earned teachings, such lessons as
holding on when everyone said
he would never cry moan complain think
again
somehow papa just keeps on
living
a manifestation of (what else) the wry humour
of his Father.
at least today i know gratitude
he is only dying, and not - yet - dead
and I?
Still learning
To turn this process of dying into one of
living to go through that tunnel slowly
burning brightly
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