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Posted by davidfrancis on Saturday, January 04, 2003 at 14:30:49 :
How Beautiful 1
You’re gone mother, long and far-gone from view
But the trees behind the house are still here
Which were before and now after you.
You left them behind.
I missed that until a friend said
I should write a poem about them.
So I waited looking, and
Nothing sublime appeared,
Nothing that might be called poetry.
The only thing I have
Is a timeless memory of you washing dishes-
With a view of those trees-…
And for some reason saying “how beautiful”
One summer’s day when time
Was not what it now is.
The Fear of Falling 2
We are always just hanging there,
Just being here ever so slightly,
Or not ever enough--not yet strong
Enough at letting go--painfully enduring
The too tightly grasped outcome of desire.
It wants to fall and disappears
While you are left clinging to an image,
A memory, an illness as a dream.
It is so little, that it is nothing,
Yet takes so much to sustain it,
For fear of it's falling and
Your being swept away.
A Good Day 3
Today is a good day; let's call it that
because the groud in my mind is a solid surface
like the one underfoot.
Because I can walk to different locations
without the impending fear of falling through.
Today is a good day because it is all holding
Here in this present hour, without the sinister
Slizzering through of something from the past- become uglier
Even with age- when I thought it could never be more than it was.
Let's call it that because the
Professionals which might determine this as madness-
one who walks in that other realm keeping check too much,
Deranged and estranged-,
Call it a good day because I am fine with it.
Could I inhabit that place of love I experienced with my mother in the hospital? She made the ultimate sacrifice of a mother's love and gave her life for me to live and in so doing fixed my world. She is gone now with scarcely a trace of her anywhere. She gathered it all together and seeing the angel, became entranced, scattered it over the lovely fields, and parted without remorse.
What lived here after her first birth into beauty became tired and wretched in its silent, unheard longing for her home. Perhaps she was more of the poet than was apparent, for isn't it the poet who sings of home and remembers, holding the invisible trailing flame of the spirit's hope for transformation. Bound to this body, she detested it. Though at one time by all accounts of those who knew of her, she was described as 'the loveliest of them all.' To her it meant little or nothing to be called beautiful.
In your time of transformation, everything you kept in the way, as if protecting a precious secret, parted and disappeared as if it were nothing, because you had directed your energy inward. I saw it in your face and in the gentleness of your limp body. I could not withhold my lips from kissing your lovely face again and again, caught up in that sweet gentleness for which I suffered and longed for all my life. Now it was happening, yet strangely within the paradox, your treasure of love now opened to me was closing from view forever.
As with everything precious mother, you kept it secret and hidden, only occasionally allowing something to slip into view, as when you decorated your towels with yellow flowers, or when you stood enraptured over the kitchen sink looking out into the fields and let slip the words "so beautiful". You hid it all from us; from me especially knowing how much I longed for it. What was your purposeful knowing concerning this: that I might only achieve myself by inhabiting your withholding and the space it created? You could only give the word of love while withholding its precious honey gathered in your inner being, saved for what future exchanges? Perhaps even you yourself were unaware of the hidden treasure you possessed and could only visibly appear as emptiness and posture, as too much concern and worry. When the angel appears, everything achieves perfect clarity. You mother, permitted me a glimpse of the angel. For that, I fell in love with you again.
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