Men Together
Men need to be seen together
enjoying coffee and food,
their rowdy conversations
ringing the air with laughter,
loud laughter, in the way
that sparks the morning
and feeds the children.
Men need to be seen together
in public places,
filling the hungry void
with the pleasure
of their sadness,
their anger and optimism,
and the passion
of their uncompromising
wildness.
Huddle men off
into solitary workplaces,
grind them like wheels,
press their creativity out
like so much oil
for the heartless machine,
and villages wither,
children choke on dry dust.
To eros, to the compassion,
the tenderness,
of men and women in love, yes,
but for the genesis of men,
the bright flash of wit,
the swordplay of brothers
who love the quickness,
the earth of each other's souls,
this must arouse
or broken bottles multiply,
streets empty,
and children
left to themselves
wander and search the sky
for the Zeus and Mercury
their ancient memories
will never forget.
Fifty
The simplest task
takes the longest time;
to achieve the mountain
or flowing green valley
life toiled for years
to create what now
seems natural;
and like nature
I struggled
to chip away
the hardened stone
and false wrapping,
the rigid cast
that restrained
the movement
of my heart
and covered the wetness
of my longing
to simply be
the man
I am.
As the great wheel again enters
the month of my birth
I know happiness
walking the shaped and tended path
where blessing and care
now seem natural,
where a mountain stands
so grounded to inner truth
that even clouds find rest
and hidden treasures
are birthed.
I know the joy and sadness
of the valley,
the work and the magic
of the mountain,
in the making
fifty years.
Making a Man
I'm making a man
and I cannot make him alone.
My friends, my family, my enemies,
all help to shape him into someone
I dreamed many years ago
as an uncarved block,
a faint image resting
within stone. Trusting fate,
weighted mallet and broad chisel,
I struck at the outer covering,
hearing him cry out
from the core of the stone,
seeking forgiveness
from the blows of the chisel;
when the density of the block
confused the image
I carved in darkness,
tracing his outline with my fingertips,
caressing the stone, tapping the creases,
the fault lines, until a fissure
in the rock would yield,
then I'd strike with might and abandon,
risking it all to reveal him.
He is not complete,
although clearly visible.
As winter approaches each year
I wonder if I will finish the work,
but because I am not alone,
even my grandsons have joined me,
what I cannot complete
will be accomplished over time,
for within his image
and the stone from which he is formed
speaks the unmistakable sound
of freedom, the freedom of a life
that will not be denied.
|
|
