A Tribute

He sits across from me—
Checkered shirt,
Bifocals perched mid-nose,
Whisker-peppered cheeks,
Hand firmly wrapped around his favorite mug.
Amidst only the crackle of slow-burning oak,
He studies the board intensely,
Ponders every move
And the countless possibilities ahead.
He sips his cooling coffee,
Reaches for the king’s knight,
Then slowly rescinds:
There are other possibilities to consider.

It is this quality more than any other
That my father most bestowed upon me—
The steady analysis of a move,
The tedious decision:
Push with the bishop,
Or protect with the knight.
So we are in life—
My father and me—
Two emotional pawns,
Ready to jump at a moments notice;
But through time and trials,
We are tempered with patience and caution,
Leery of the dangers which come with rushing into battle.
We are Scotsmen:
Willing to do anything of our own accord,
And nothing at the demand of another.
He reaches for the king’s rook,
Then slowly rescinds:
There are other possibilities to consider.

I should use this time to ponder my next move,
Or at least the ramifications of my last move in hindsight.
Instead, my mind escapes the board
and focuses on his face.
This man—
To whom I owe my wisdom,
my intellect and temperament,
my humor and discipline...
my life—
And yet I have not made a dent in that debt.
Sons—fortunate enough to have fathers like mine—
Pay tribute to their fathers in death.
Tears at the grave,
Spawned by memories
Of food always being on the table,
Painful reminders of that debt—
Sacrifice the depths of which my pen cannot hope to portray.
We remember our fathers as great men,
And we so honor them at death.
But would not our fathers prefer to be honored in life?
Perhaps the piercing pipes that wail “Amazing Grace”
From some distant graveyard hilltop
Are mor for the son than for the father.
He reaches for the king’s bishop,
Then slowly rescinds—
There are other possibilities to consider.

The wait, for some, would be too much,
But not for me.
Every moment of tedious study,
Every moment of torturous pondering,
Give me but one more moment to honor my father
While he still has pieces on the board.
Eventually, though, the game will end.
There will be no more decisions,
No more pondering the possibilities.
Despite my efforts to pay tribute with my life,
That debt inevitably will be still unpaid.
And so, when that day comes,
I will stand quietly,
Shiver from the cold,
Remember how food was always on the table,
And as tears gently careen down my cheek,
Tremble as the distant pipes
Pay tribute for a debt I can never repay.

— 2004

Echoes

This trail of tears,
Cast upon me in years gone by,
Now I cast upon those in my wake,
Unwilling to escape what I've known,
To push aside myself,
But rather hold to who I was,
And who they were—
Echoes of a time long since passed
That has passed everyone but me.

— 2005

Escape

Out here on my own, alone.
Down from twisted stance.
No more bars surround my path;
No more bruises from the wrath.
My skies are split wide open;
Erase my mem’ry fast.
This is new innocence.
This is my present tense.
Abscond from the past.

This dark corridor of glee
Seems to welcome me
For a solitary night;
A chance to reason
All the pains
That haunt me when
There was no treason
To a promise made.

Into the vein of the city,
Into the blood of the river,
Many possibilities,
Perhaps too many,
Circle high
Above the flooded street.
Secrets kept in secret,
Soon float in the open air
Of passionate swells
And capturing hells.
Escape to the city again.

-- JML, 2003