rededication

Grandmother,

How I've missed

the simple talks we'd have

About the meaning of words

And the glistening of fire

you told me once, but

I forgot, forgive me.

Grandfather,

How I've missed

watching your strong arms,

Hands grasping about tools,

and the making of the fire

you taught me once,

but I forgot, forgive me.

I shared a kiss,

of fire, not of passion.

Fire meant for the head,

and spread it did, around and throughout,

across a summer, bright and fertile,

But I forgot, forgive me.

I hold myself responsible

for words my grandmother entrusted me,

for deeds my grandfather tutored me,

for promises devised from a kiss

on lips which since have flown.

They were forsaken.

They were forsaken.

And my suffering has multiplied,

But in it I have REMEMBERED

The Protector of the Truth. I remember,

I remember and rededicate myself

to that lofty cause.

My heart, my light, my mind.

I have returned grandmother, grandfather,
as your champion.

pa's hat

I first wore the hat at the age of two

in a picture my mother took.

It swallowed my head- its immense size;

an adult's hat on a child's head.

My grandfather wore the hat around the 1950's-

when it was stylish. It fit him funny

we always laugh about the way it sat

on top of his head.

When off it came, a part of him was left inside and stayed for years as it sat alone in the top of his closet.

When I grew bigger, I lifted the hat from it's lonely perch.

Now it fit me-the brown hat hugging my head snugly but not too tight.

And all of a sudden, I left the place where the hat and my grandfather were for years.

But when I wear the hat, part of Pa infuses me.

His love and laughter spring to life

and make me into a man such as he.

And neither hats nor grandfathers are forever...

But I'll wear the hat, and I'll keep that part of him

left so many years ago.

And when he's gone, there will be a man

who laughs like him, and walks like him, and cares like him.

Still wearing his Pa's hat.

church

My grandfather lived to be 97. Throughout this time he was my father-figure, role-model & constant friend. This poem is about him but can be expanded to mean THE Grandfather, God, or the sacred masculine if you prefer. Pa displayed many of the virtues I think of when I think about what a man should be. I like to think the god is something like him.

The choir, by the way, was made up of rabbits.

* * *

I went to church

last Sunday morn though

not a pastor spoke.

The only choir

gnoshed oats with teeth

and did not sing a note.

With my grandfather,

I worked on the sabbath

but did not suffer sin.

His sermon rich,

entwining hope

with stories of where he's been.

The pews were plastic

no need to kneel

and neither of us tithed.

We talked as men

on equal ground;

a sense of respect and pride.

Nobody swooned

and no one prayed,

nobody bayed in dread.

There was no shouting

nor threats of hell,

the hour was never more sacred.

I went to church

last Sunday morn,

I did not find it odd-

between Pa's voice

and the joyous work

I felt the hand of God.

arrangements for the gathering

Your doorbell rings
I wring hands I’ve
been sitting on
God knows how long
more feet tread the carpet
more eyes study my face
looking for a trace of you
or maybe an inkling of
some long-lost solace
deep-set in brown-black eyes
we improvise conversation
all the while gazing down
the darkened hallway my
thoughts lost on spent medicines
and floral bouquets
and making arrangements
for the gathering and
how to make it one you’d praise.
I stand around people shaped
the same as you and I
they reminisce, shifting sorrows
into long, writhing sighs
while I cannot do a thing but smile-
think about throwing balls
and fishing songs
and swimming pools long ago-
your hand guiding my shoulder
steering me surely down the sidewalk
the jubilation in your voice
when I’d call- your “Hey, Bo!”-
that may be the thing I’ll miss most
I’ll take your spot, though
in the recliner chair, remember
I’m only there to keep it warm,
for you.

* * *

This poem was written for Pa- Dudley Lee Tankersley. My grandfather, my role model of fatherhood. We got to be with him during the last few years of his life, and they were great years. I'm so thankful for that time. PUBLISHED in the August 2013 Edition of The Rag, Albuquerque, NM.