Thursday, September 15, 2005

An Opinion

FORE-GIVE-NESS

'tis easy to grant a soul mate
a gift of selfless love enduring;
which includes a caress of solace
for future pain from human error.

Because my 'house is in order' --
at least cobwebs swept from mental attic,
I can give you peace aforethought --
know that this I have fore given thee.

And in the magick of reflection
by which yearning spirit seeks balance,
I know that I am given in turn
soulful peace both fore and aft.

Today and on, I grant a stranger
that which I have learned to from thee --
that open heart and hand includes gift
of saying 'yes' be-fore the dawn of tears.

Forgiveness is chained to sorrow
with links of imagined guilt and shame;
forged by priests in self-enhancement
that you may choose not to empower.

When you escape from simple belief
and transcend to knowing love instead,
then be-fore you sing in sisterhood
you give all -- or not at all, by choice.

Monday, September 12, 2005

Ears of the Fountain

I sit here by the fountain -- your fountain,
caressed by mists and music of the fall --
perhaps meant for another;
as I did not come by right of passage,
nor as a life-thirsty traveler,
but as one who would learn
more of forgiveness.

I muse over your fine offerings here --
opened hearts in simple awe and pain,
and sense your still vibrant presence
on the firm stones around me,
each slight indentation on the granite
but a lingering fingerprint of God;
and I shall pay attention.

I followed no serpent, save the one
ever wrapped around my yearning soul --
for Oroborus encircles my passion
in woven cycles of rebirth song
in which shallbeen and everwhen
are but whispers of my being;
and I shall pay attention.

Yet, as I sit alone in the bright shadows --
listening -- absorbing -- embracing;
I already sense a pulsing rhythm
that might guide my chance later sharing.
In timeless draw the word 'forgiveness'
is misspelled and therefore disengaging!
Consider friends the portent of 'fore-giving'
.

papa

Sunday, September 11, 2005

The Train to Forgiveness

We set off with a light load:
Picnic stuff, pen and paper.
The grassy hill has a worn path
as wide as one foot.
The path leads straight up
And wanders near the edge,
Where you can have
a striking view of the bay.
Little boats dock
And children play in the surf.

A short walk and we arrive,
To a flat spot with a 360 degree view.
The sun is bright.
The sky is its most blue.
And here I write about forgiveness…

The seagulls cry out.
And with the magic earpiece I hear,
“The air is free and so am I!”

Under an umbrella
I write:

The Train:
from Venice to Rome

After settling in
I find my mother
dozing quietly near the window.

I want to write in my journal.
Flipping through
I find
an old entry about Leo’s birthday.
What was Leo’s favorite candy?
So I asked her,
Do you remember?
She slowly replies
with a deep chuckle,
Alcohol.

And that begins the unwholesome story
of my father.
I can’t get a clear view of him.
And when it is clear,
I prefer the mystery.

I would like to imagine him good and kind
But my mother knew him, very well.
He was a hurtful person.

My aunt gives me a different view,
But she was too young.

I try to keep the conversation trivial.
But the long drives to Las Vegas,
Reappear without asking.
The strip clubs
With my young mother in tow.
How awful.
How undignified.
How sad.

It breaks my heart for her.
How… Why…

She was pushed so far,
It changed her.

If she was innocent and sweet,
It made her slightly rough and callous.
And that just pisses me off.

I have tried to change the view of my dad.
But what do you do?

He was a big tipper.
He likes to show off…

While in Orvieto,
we stop at a lovely restaurant,
and order a five-course lunch.

I don’t drink by choice,
But I decide to have a glass of wine
with this fine meal.
We are in Italy after all.
My mother puts her head on the table
And sobs.
Crying out in protest.
We all stare at her,
Dumbfounded.
I fear a scene.

She makes me so angry.
She is always trying to control me.

From them on I move very carefully.
It taints our trip a bit.

But after some timid conversations,
I learn.
Her fear is the afternoon alcoholic.
At 36, I have never until then
had an entire glass of wine to myself.

On the train home,
we pass amazing landscapes.
I never thought I would
Spend time with my Mom in Italy.



Unshed tears, renewed anger.
I must move forward in this life.
I cannot hang on to old pains.
I make choices everyday,
That make me a worthwhile human being.
Each day is new.

The seagulls cry out.
We walk as my thoughts
go in and out of focus.

And there…
Hidden by an ancient oak
Is the Well Of Forgiveness.
A bamboo ladle waits.
I cup my hands,
With this magic liquid
And drink.

I think…
Not by magic
Not by force,
Can forgiveness be made.
By much working of the heart.
Can the edge of hate and disappointment,
Dissipate.

In this chosen moment,
I give away my icky heartache.
I give my pain to the open sky.
And she takes it.
Drink in lightness.
Drink in wonder.
Drink in freedom.
As the air is free,
So am I.