Greyhavens Morning: October 9, 2008

Tai Torii: Harmony Spirit Gate

Father and Son

Oh I know that I provided 
the mandatory basics:
food, clothing, shelter.
But it goes beyond that:
it’s about the wonder
of observing development,
watching the dawn
of understanding.
And feeling your delight and joy,
aching with your pain, 
and waiting with your anger:
about trying to give
some small insight
into me,
so that you could, knowing me,
recognise more of you.
And keeping a constant supply
of love for you,
stressing its vital importance
in life.

But we never played sports,
(I was not that kind of dad)
and I fear that I neglected
to give you choice.
We never spent close time together,
(you were as solitary as I)
and I feel we missed something
that we were too privately busy
to find together.
And, in asking what you thought,
I listened, but never really heard,
the marvel that is you.

You were older than I thought
in your life,
and,
now that you have grown,
I find myself searching
for your lost youth.
And wondering if the pain 
of our separation
will ever fade.

Brahman’s Blossom

If I have made
my mark on you, my child,
and instilled within your heart
any of that brave stuff
which is my essence,
   I have done that which I was placed
   in this time to do.

If one seed has been planted
that blossoms into knowledge
it took so long to glean;
one kernel of eternal Truth
that arrived in me so late,
   my long fallow has ended,
   and my stewardship is done.

If eternity approaches
and I return my Brahman spark,
leaving some small word
that I have spoken
to flourish in your life,
   then that Spark will glow brighter
   for having sheltered within you.

An Irish Heart

Fair Erin’s shore calls loudly
to her children far away
whose families had to leave her
to keep starving death at bay.

Her siren songs still call us
across these many years:
the echo of the uillean pipes
still brings forth heartfelt tears.

The ballads, myths, and legends,
are taught to us from birth:
the poets, heroes, kings, and knaves
prove well seanachie’s worth.

Though we may not be with her,
we’ve been too long apart,
we’ll always have her with us
within an Irish heart.

     —Seamus OFionnain

A Time To Say Goodbye

To each of us
there comes a time
when an action
becomes right:
   a time of birth,
   a time of death,
   of sadness, or delight.

The clarion call
to fall in love,
the urge
to change direction:
   a time for each choice
   to be made
   as we strive for perfection.

For me
the hardest time
of all,
no matter how I try,
   is when the clock is still,
   and it
   is time to say goodbye.

A Day Never Passes

A day never passes
without I contemplate
another wondrous facet
of our love.

I never look upon you
without that sense of joy
you awaken
in my heart.

Your love is a beacon:
the candle in the window
that lights
my way home.

The Fool and the Mountain

I once stood on a steep hill
watching a fool stumbling his way
s l o w l y
and painfully to the top.

He didn’t
follow the path, but instead
a diversified route through rocks
and trees
and rose bushes.  I thought
him foolish, considering
the smooth simplicity of the path.
For hours I watched him, amazed
by his actions as he rolled in the grass,
dug under stones and such.

At last he stood beside me on the peak, 
smiling.  I questioned him at length
on his trip, stating how pointless
it seemed.  He said, “I helped a young robin
back into its nest;
I watched the sun set in the west,
through a rose bush;
I counted the petals in a daisy-chain,
and cried at the waste;
I found a quartz crystal
that had swallowed a rainbow;
I watched a fieldmouse nursing five children;
I spied on a bud that bust forth as a violet;
I heard the universe speak
through the throat of a swallow.”

And he left me,
standing sad on the hill.

              

The Forest of Shadows

I am pursued through the forest
where there is no colour,
save that of feigned understanding.

Underfoot the rustling
of long-dead rumours
clutch at me like
the slime-laden claws
of some prehistoric
bastard crustacean,
spawned in hatred of change
by a dying mammal
made obsolete by the birth of man.

And the whispers, that were once screams,
that I hear through pounding eardrums,
are still persistent, yet false
as ever.
But I heed them less.

I stumble barefoot and breathless,
through the myriad graveyards
of the Seven Churches: besieged by bells,
garroted by rosaries, choking on the words of men
who would seek to lead, while their
need is to be led:
but they are not.

Dying with every step,
I am beaten, and in frustration
turn
to meet my pursuer;
then weep with futility,
for that dreaded Face
has my own image.

Seal Harbour Days

Eternal fog still caresses these beloved shores
today, as in years past.
Scrub spruce, crowberry bushes, and ferns
now grow in profusion
where once houses stood defiant
against Atlantic gales.
Alders pay homage to fields
where fox pens made vain effort
to supplement
meagre income.

Through the mist a lone saddleback
laments the vanished bounty
his ancestors enjoyed: two pleasure boats
quietly rock
where dories, punts, and skiffs waited patiently
for the fishermen’s return,
or the freedom occasionally granted them
by small, seafaring boys.

At the two small cemeteries
the fog lingers quietly for a while,
like a brief visit between good friends
for whom words are not necessary
to define their kindred spirits.
The damp stillness attenuates a gentle echo
of remembered laughter,
of shared tragedies,
of birth and renewal,
of departures overshadowing
infrequent returns.

Wispy shapes can almost be seen,
in oilskins and Leckie boots,
and in patterned cotton house-dresses
that button up the front:
proud, brightly painted homes
seem to shimmer just beyond
the limit of vision,
and the smell of drying salt cod
and lobster bait mingle exotically
with that of home-baked bread,
molasses cookies, and johnny cake.

In the small village church
a diverse group of people
from near and far congregate
to share their common heritage:
skits, poetry, songs, and storytelling
express a strong sense of community,
a poignant feeling of something lost,
and a bittersweet remembrance
of departed family and friends.

One cannot help but feel that,
as the fog hangs outside the door,
yesterday still exists just beyond our sight,
remembered voices and smiles continue,
and small boats sail with the tide
to return with the sea’s harvest.
Children play in tidal pools,
returning to country kitchens
blessed by the benediction
of home cooking.
At the store down the road,
conversation rules eternal,
and the fog mixes with the smell
of Zig-Zag tobacco,
while comfortable nail kegs
host men who were giants in their time.

And down the gravel road, a small boy,
holding tight to his father’s hand,
walks, unknowingly,
towards a future
that will celebrate his past.

The Grown-up

(For my children, Kelly, Erin, Geoff, and Siobhan)

It wasn’t a magical star
granting a childish wish
      that made me grown up,
nor was it an evil wizard’s
vengeful spell
      that made me old.

She looked at me,
secure there on my lap,
      Pooh flannel ‘jammies’
wrapping her in the security
of being young, and safe
      in Daddy’s arms.

I used to fly with Wendy and the boys,
run from pirates with young Jim Hawkins,
      that was the boy I was!
It seems only a few minutes ago
Gordon and I fought the Dervishes
      at far-away Khartoum.

It wasn’t cosmic stardust,
falling one mystic night,
      that wrought this change
from the carefree boy I was,
the discovering, exploring, querying
      consumer of countless books.

It was the knowledge, my child,
the sure and wondrous certainty
      that you awaited,
with your brother and sisters,
that made me run, singing,
      to be here with you today.