chip 1.
my heart is senseless
it makes as much sense
as driving 5 hours
on father's day
for a 15 minute visit
to gaze into the eyes
of the man whose seed
became my becoming
only to recognize
how little we know about each other
how cliche' conversations have become:
"how's basketball?
you liftin?
which boy is it now?"
i want to get beneath the surface
of words
reveal the sincerity of our silence
for what we are perhaps both
afraid to admit:
I may be more like him
than i'd like to be.
just hours later
i do not remember
the soft of his hug
for all the ways he raised us tough
his kisses came closest
to resolving the neglect.
among the sweetest memories
of my boyhood
was having people see "rev." and "coach"
kiss the same lil boy
he said tackled either
"like a sissy" or "too mean"
I could never find the in-between
i still do not know when and where
his molding began
or when it will end.
chip 2.
i had hoped pops
would relish my trip
as brave
me sacrificing time sandwiched between
work and work
just so he can be reminded
I've still got the chisel of his mask.
I had hoped pops
would understand
my drive
as flowing from the same well of passion
that has made him fall to fast
scratch dirt in the knee-scrapes
trying to clean them off
and perhaps
my thick muscularity and baritone
are evidence enough
that I'm still a tough cookie
if often and ironically
an unhappy gay
I'd hoped he would think more
of the sentiment i wrote in the card
than the modest monetary token
he ripped the envelope to claim
but he left the card and broken envelope
in the back seat
money gone
the clash of hallmark cliche'
with poetry I wrote
as insecurely as
the wear and tear of our
guydance
chip 3.
i wanted to leave something behind
but he left it carelessly discarded
so I have taken it back with me
like the image of him
across from me at McDonalds
post 60 salt and pepper masculinity,
still cocky and fearless
like I'm sometimes not sure
I will get to live to be:
confident in spite of emo-clutter
left behind
and people trying to forgive
a lovingly foolish heart
like the nervous drive
i will blame on transmission issues
hands shaking in route
I still went to meet the man
insecure that i am enough,
some approximation
of whatever will make him proud
so I am not certain that i will ever
live down the ways
I'm second born
root rusted and cornfed like him
hands not as hardened
though thick with the wrestle
of heartquakes
and heavy breaths
chip 4.
i shared with him
evidence of the ways my heart has become
clumsy, like his has been known to be
and he smiled
teeth not as bright as his aura:
"YOU A WEST
a chip off the old block"
I'm not sure I found it funny
but I suppose
he is right
because i will continue
to drive hours
for the possibility of 15 minutes of love
will continue to fall as hard
as dominos are slapped
on cardboard tables
i'll continue to seek
the man i am becoming
till i can look in the mirror,
like I look at my father
and say with full resolve
"you did ahhite!"
5 comments:
Tim'm. I don't have the gift of poetry, so the best that I can do is quote those who are gifted like you. Your visit with your pops reminds me of this ending of "If":
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!
The tim'm that I know is every bit "a Man. Shem hotep.
--Rudyard Kipling
i like this poem about your father, it is well said and in so few words. You do have the gift of poetry.
Even though they are our fathers, we still have to allow them to make mistakes and be juevenile if they wish (or if they don't realize). As sons, we don't know all the answers and sometimes don't act as our fathers' wish. And vice versa. But we are lucky enough to have each other.
And blocks and chips aren't snuggly enough anyway. I prefer the fruit falling from the tree. 'Cos then at least you can roll away, drop a few seeds of your own and start anew. You may look the same, but the taste can be altogether different, sweeter - juicer - more delicious - more satisfying. :)
I'm still think (hope) I was adopted when it comes to thinking about my father, but so many of your words ring so true inside me. Time is never wasted trying to re-establish or learn from a connection from someone, even if they are your father.
you my beloved one continue to shine and amaze with your faith in action by going to places that cringe and hold uncertainty as to what will or will not happen. you creep, crawl, kneel, and walk with an open heart. and that my beloved brothalove is a courageous spirit man walking out his call to live authenically. happy birthday. love and light, ananda
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