Isle of Ancestors

I went to see her and she was so pleased,

But immediately asked about you,

Let’s face it, I was a poor substitute,

Who made excuses on your behalf;

‘ Me and our Bet, we hate these places,

Hospitals,’ she said, ‘I’ve spent my life

Trying to stay away from them.’

I nodded,

She would have loved to see you.

Tired but laughing, flushed face,

Colour too high, too red, heart

Playing up - you weren’t to know,

None of us could

How bad things were,

I truly hope she too had no idea;

She was lovely; soft, sentimental,

Cried easily - your favourite sister,

You adored her - but you would not visit,

Could not, even for her, overcome that fear;

Told me later you wanted to remember her

As she was when you last met;

The irony -  you last met

At your brother’s funeral - so sad that day

But you both still laughed even in your loss

Kept each other going, made others smile.

I  knew and had always understood

You would do anything to avoid grief;

In my car driving to the service

I played Carols from Christchurch, exquisite

Christmas hymn, ‘In the Bleak Mid-Winter’

And I heard you sob, desperate hot tears

As your anguished heart wept and broke, 

We all know what you’re like, we’d always known.

But - in truth she would have loved to see you,

In that hospital before Christmas,

Her favourite sister;

I saw the yearning in her eyes

For you to be there,

To chat and laugh, share her fears,

Beg for reassurance, joke, feel happy;

She’d been near to going home

Had a temporary setback,

But you could have plumped her pillows,

Held her hand, laughed, smiled, kissed goodnight;

You see that time was not about you,

Not about your fear, your dread

It was about Aunt Jean,

Your little sister, who wanted to see you

But never got the chance

Did not get the choice,

Not knowing, when I smiled byebye,

Before the week was out

That she would die.

Jan

photo by Troubadour (c)

ANCIENT MEADOW

I could drift across this meadow
to reach the ancient cave of dreams;
but will tarry here ‘pon a stone
and let you come to me it seems.

Naked toes tickled the clover
as you danced about in Spring,
and were it not for silver dew
I might have missed your laughing.

I know you loved soft thistles so,
apurple midst life’s hidden thorn;
and knee high grasses tell of thee –
faint waving on a Summer morn.

Golden leaves would mask your passing
as the silent tears keep falling;
but I know footprints still lay there
need I hope for future’s calling.

and now the frost of predawn hush
shines silver echo of the moon;
come then again to me my friend
as Godlight warms my heart in tune.

Again and still we are reborn
as Winter hints of budding Spring;
and what I will be is of we,
in the braid of seasoned being.

I’ve been with you
this past week, every day
we’ve talked together
walked the old pathways
dreamed old dreams
finding the direction you made for me
by your short living, mine has stretched
so much further and in, I trust,
where you would have me be

Thank you, my dear one
for the gifts you gave:  Remembering
your courage when the witch that wasn’t invited took so much:  your childhood sight
the schooling that you loved
your homeland’s gentle hedges
the wild waves of the northern sea
your mother’s farewell
your sister’s kindly touch

Against such odds you kept
the  hand of the White One’s gift
our heritage?
tenderness
the love you showed each day to our lady mother
the way you mended cuts  children collect
the pride you showed in our accomplishments
freedom to learn, to  go on learning
the memory of your courage in the painful days of your long illness
my prayer, to have your spirit close.
Stay with me , Dad

Cronelogical November 2006

There is a Mexican saying that we die three deaths: the first when our bodies die, the second when our bodies are lowered into the earth out of sight, and the third when our loved ones forget us. The Greeks have a saying which is repeated at every memorial service beginning at the funeral and continuing as long as anyone alive remembers the fallen one: May his/her memory be eternal. Eonia I Mnimi, memory Eternal…

Let us this day hang the lamp of illumination and spiritual radiance before the sepulchres of of ancestors, and dead loved ones. Let us even hang it reverently before the tombs of our enemies, if we have them, and beseech the Almighty to let forgiveness flow down the riverbeds of time and mortality to bathe us now and forevermore.

Let us deck the table with flowers, and visit graves with bouquets, and find old family photographs and kiss them. Let us tell our children stories of great grandpa’s days as a mule driver or the dusty tale of the great great great great uncle who fought the British at Valley Forge…Let us make the sugar skulls of Mexico and have them with our tea…memory elernal, dear brothers and sisters, memory eternal…

II Maccabees 12:43-46: “And making a gathering, he [Judas] sent twelve thousand drachms of silver to Jerusalem for sacrifice to be offered for the sins of the dead, thinking well and religiously concerning the resurrection, (For if he had not hoped that they that were slain should rise again, it would have seemed superfluous and vain to pray for the dead,) And because he considered that they who had fallen asleep with godliness, had great grace laid up for them. It is therefore a holy and wholesome thought to pray for the dead, that they may be loosed from sins.”

MotherBear

Newcomers will think to step lightly –
fearful of disturbing footprint
on the drifting sands of past journeys,
but I challenge thee to be bold,
for the long sought Grail of Creativity
is nothing if you will not grasp it!

I (papa faucon) would suggest that you take some of the words –
nay the passion –
of sister’s thoughts and nether dreams,
and build upon them –
weaving thus the old and new
in preparation for meeting an Ancient.

……………………………………………….

by way of example, I offer a song
written by m’lady Emrys years ago –
and the words I penned in response.

CircleWalk (Em - 9/90)

I tread thrice ’round, three times three,
to release the Spirit within me;
and all Life’s Echoes from Her Seas.

And She shall lead Her Children

Along the wooded paths I trace, weaving, wandering,
through time and space, ’til I espy Her Beloved’s face.

And He shall love His Children.

In misty moors we now repair,
the Grail’s wine of wisdom to be shared,
Hear Myrddin’s Harp surround us there.

for He shall guide His Children.
………………………………………………….

faucon’s response (2003)

Reflection of Life’s Echoes.

Weaving, wandering, threading thrice ’round.
Does not the foot prance but lightly
on Earthly form of chance encounter?

Lead, love, guided by spirit surround.
It is new footprints in morning dew
that call me to wisdom’s misty share.

As long as the heart does never welsh,
nor girlish laughter leave wooded paths,
then He and She will lift up your steps.

Norse blood can call on Bragi’s voice
as well as Jotun’s heavy striding
to crossing the Rainbow Bridge in song.

In time I have become you
in so many ways
It is in the things I have to say
and how I spend my days.

Those same corn-ball jokes
that used to annoy the family
Have me laughing out loud
they now wonder about me.

I find myself drawing
the world through your eyes
It is nothing I am aware of
but the canvas never lies.

You missed meeting your grandkids,
they lost out on their granddad
I have always told them what
a great and wonderful father I had.

In the great hereafter,
whatever it might be
Keep an eye out for your daughter
sketching under the knowledge tree.

I have missed your laughter
covering up the jokes you’d tell
If I don’t see you in heaven
I’ll look for you in hell.

aletta

Leo Mes (1928-1974) my dad