I know most people assume I only think and write nasty, acerbic shit, so forgive me if I take a short break from the negative. I've been reflecting on my children, and how they've managed to grow into absolutely wonderful, brilliant adults in spite of my leadings. I encouraged their drowning in lakes and jumping from cliffs. I told them the dastardly tales of my youth and of my foibled history. I've led them in poverty all over this country and taught them that Pepsi for breakfast was perfectly fine. I've never imposed a curfew on them. I've never grounded them.
I've never had to.
For some reason they've just always had a weird knack for doing what's right and it still drives me crazy. It's so not me.
So I guess I must credit their Mother, though she swears it isn't her. Anyway, I was thinking on them a bit lately. This is what resulted.
Nicole
Dan
I have a daughter. I love her dearly. She's grown now. A mystery always. Always sleek and under the radar. Words are used only when necessary.
the harbour
it looks still
and peaceful
from this hillside
I squat
ancient observer
was a time
the time
when I worked
the dock
she stayed close
back then
her wake was playful
her conning tower
flowered
to the stars
I rubbed her
I smoothed her
I polished her
-she let me
but the day
has grown on,
it looks still
and peaceful
from this hillside
I squat
ancient observer
was a time
the time
when I worked
the dock
she stayed close
back then
her wake was playful
her conning tower
flowered
to the stars
I rubbed her
I smoothed her
I polished her
-she let me
but the day
has grown on,
the shadows stretch
her wake is strong
and
full of purpose
she polishes
herself
in her movement
her wake is strong
and
full of purpose
she polishes
herself
in her movement
a barnacle
wouldn't dare approach
so I walk the hillsides
that surround
her emergence
ancient observer
she goes out now
much farther
much deeper
reinforced
by the learning
of her engine,
the motive
of her rudder
and the pull
of the tide
others watch
and give passage
to her sleekness
as she slowly disappears
below the surface
one day,
she won’t return
neither good nor bad
it just is
the way of life
so I walk
the hillside
ancient observer
and dream of where she’s going
and hope
her bunkers filled
and her seams dry
and I hope
as she slides
beneath the surface
that her periscope
will rise once
and turn
to look
for the
ancient observer
who looks from squat
upon a windblown
hillside.
so I walk the hillsides
that surround
her emergence
ancient observer
she goes out now
much farther
much deeper
reinforced
by the learning
of her engine,
the motive
of her rudder
and the pull
of the tide
others watch
and give passage
to her sleekness
as she slowly disappears
below the surface
one day,
she won’t return
neither good nor bad
it just is
the way of life
so I walk
the hillside
ancient observer
and dream of where she’s going
and hope
her bunkers filled
and her seams dry
and I hope
as she slides
beneath the surface
that her periscope
will rise once
and turn
to look
for the
ancient observer
who looks from squat
upon a windblown
hillside.
Dan
I have a son. I love him. He's brilliant, and funny when frustrated. Loves to argue. Dabbles in everything. Extremely creative. He always tries to do the right thing-nothing like me. I wonder where it will all take him.
a strange one,
this long, lanky
bird.
a hard thinker
from his roots
of tender lily
I don’t miss
the times we had
so much
as the times
we never had
and should have.
a boat builder
of tobacco sticks
he might have seen it float
-had I seen it float
he believes in science
and logic
and modern man
my belief in such
lies fragmented
in the craters
of a war
beyond this earth.
he wants,
I think,
to be battleship
but one that swerves
to avoid sea turtles
or stops to rescue
broken birds
I don’t know how to tell him
why
he can’t be both.
I just know he can’t.
he’s stronger than me
he will be battleship
in the name of progress
and logic.
I wish him well
but I wish him
stars over gps
and enough trouble
to keep him spirit
me,
I will take the broken bird
and tired turtle
and swim for an island
that knows no
anchorage
and dream
of tobacco stick boats
and a little boy
who once sailed
a plastic lid
across a lake
with a sister
for crew.
and miss the times
we never had.
this long, lanky
bird.
a hard thinker
from his roots
of tender lily
I don’t miss
the times we had
so much
as the times
we never had
and should have.
a boat builder
of tobacco sticks
he might have seen it float
-had I seen it float
he believes in science
and logic
and modern man
my belief in such
lies fragmented
in the craters
of a war
beyond this earth.
he wants,
I think,
to be battleship
but one that swerves
to avoid sea turtles
or stops to rescue
broken birds
I don’t know how to tell him
why
he can’t be both.
I just know he can’t.
he’s stronger than me
he will be battleship
in the name of progress
and logic.
I wish him well
but I wish him
stars over gps
and enough trouble
to keep him spirit
me,
I will take the broken bird
and tired turtle
and swim for an island
that knows no
anchorage
and dream
of tobacco stick boats
and a little boy
who once sailed
a plastic lid
across a lake
with a sister
for crew.
and miss the times
we never had.
(I sorrow greatly for any love I ever held back. I know them to be forgiving)
~rick
~rick
