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There Is Within My Happenstance

There is within my happenstance
An unshed innocence,
Not rare among those buttercups
Whose sun is fueled by shame.
No matter what the circumstance,
My heart must hie me hence,
For all the quince of Nottingham
Is squandered in my name.
Extant there are no photographs
Of who or what I am,
For they were in the sandwiches
We ate one moonlit night.
Instead my mirror must reveal
The marmaladed ham
That lies atop the tabletop
And stuffs itself with light.
Ay me! What might I do that might
Undo my unfelt pain?
My life must gorge on life, and yet
I sorrow for my mice.
Ay me! The cherubs hunger as
My goods are shipped by plane.
And I must dance with polar bears
Across the shrinking ice.

To A Terrier

HAIL to thee, blithe spirit!
Dog thou never wert--
That from my door or near it
Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
Louder still and louder
From thy throat it sparkest,
Like a clap of thunder;
Outside my home thou parkest,
And barking still dost stay, and staying ever barkest.
In the golden light'ning
Of the sunken sun,
O'er which clouds are bright'ning,
Thou dost woof and run,
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.
The pale purple even
Sets off your terrier white;
Thank God there aren't seven
In the broad daylight.
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight:
Keen as are the arrows
Of that silver sphere
Whose intense lamp narrows
In the white dawn clear,
Although we cannot see, we hear that you are there.
All the earth and air
With thy voice is loud,
As when night is bare,
From one lonely cloud
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow'd.
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For Most of Us Life Passes like a Dream

For most of us life passes like a dream,
Revealing only what is on our minds.
Inside the prison of the self we see
Each object as a shadow on our wall.
Nothingness awaits, as sure as night.
Did I not have you, dear friend, I might,
Shadow on a shade, not be at all.
How much we need a word beyond our sea:
In love and laughter, thoughts of different kinds,
Perhaps, with luck, unraveling a seam.
Forgive Me if I Come into Your Bed
Forgive me if I come into your bed,
Open wounds to read therein your shame,
Remove your skin to gaze on naked sorrow,
Tear out your heart to substitute my name.
You wish, no doubt, to keep your personhead.
One we are, and one will be tomorrow;
No one is ever utterly unwed.
Even strangers are one flesh in joy and pain.
Friends Are Prisoners of Expectation
Friends are prisoners of expectation,
Reflected in the mirror of their need.
Instead of being happy on their own,
Each knows that one cannot survive alone,
Nor think unless another plants the seed.
Dependent all for person on relation,
So to be fed, must one the other feed.
Goodbye, Dear Friend and Graduate
Goodbye, dear friend and graduate!
Our golden time is over now,
Our time of nothing more than time,
Days of simply being friends.
But I will always treasure how
Your love for me slipped into mine,
Embracing me where courage ends.
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Home Is a Myth That Must Be Recreated

Home is a myth that must be recreated
As every generation comes of age,
Placed by their own children on the stage
Precisely when their fantasies have faded.
Yet one is more than amply compensated
For playing well the well-wrought saint or sage,
As love wells up beneath the camouflage,
The truth that makes the myth immaculate.
How beautiful it is to be a father!
Emperor forever of a dream
Repeated through the labyrinths of longing
'Mid memories more true than what has been.
Sing, then, of myths that tie one to another
Deep beneath the bulwarks of belonging,
As tales begun before the words begin
Yet fabricate the worlds in which words mean.
You Are Our Knight in Shining Armor
You are our knight in shining armor,
Pilgrim of our plea,
The Atlas for our wounded world,
Our rescuer at sea.
You are the pillar of our hopes,
The deep bass of our song,
The strength that underlies our strength,
The calm for which we long.
You came into our house of dreams
And turned it into truth,
Entering at just the point
Where yearning shatters youth.
What could motivate someone
To bear another's load
But that most beautiful of lights,
The inner lamp of love.
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Perhaps We'll Never Understand Each Other

Perhaps we'll never understand each other.
Loving doesn't mean that we agree.
If that were so, then I would say, why bother?
But there are things I know I'll never see.
I'm sure your heart knows what I don't yet know:
The pain of loving a reluctant son;
The anger, coming fast and building slow,
Of being helpless to control someone.
You want only that I grow up right,
But you know what right is, and I still don't.
I have to learn to wield my inner light,
And if I follow yours, well, then I won't.
I'm sorry for the anger in the air;
Though we fight, my love is always there.
Stepfathers Are No Less than Those of Blood
Stepfathers are no less than those of blood:
The spirit is more comely than the flesh.
Equally, two mysteries might mesh,
Paired by nature or by neighborhood.
Fathers are defined by how they love,
And not by how they multiply or breed.
Though you did not supply the primal seed,
How you've loved me does your kinship prove.
Each child must turn when life's too hard to bear,
Regarding someone's arms or empty air.
So do I turn, and always you are there.
Stepfathers of Grown Children Find the Grace
Stepfathers of grown children find the grace
To love beneath a banner of their own.
Each is more than friend, though not by blood;
Parent, yet not part of childhood;
Father, yes, in truth, but not in stone.
Arms open ever to our long embrace,
They give to us what's theirs to give alone:
Hearts unhindered by a child's good,
Ears unhampered by what words we would,
Regard deep rooted in a single tone
Shared through fondness for a single face.
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Fantasies, like Words, Await What's Real

Fantasies, like words, await what's real,
Anchored only when attached to things.
The dream of fatherhood, that long-sought dawn,
Has now become the light of early morn,
Exact and merciless in what it brings:
Riches to which one can only kneel.
'Mid all the truths the package will reveal,
Sensing well the wonder as it sings,
Drawing well the world to which it's drawn,
A love beyond all words will give you wings,
Yielding joys beyond what you can feel.
Fathers and Daughters Have a Romance
Fathers and daughters have a romance
That goes on for the rest of their lives,
Destined to ripen and age as they dance
Through the days of their husbands and wives.
Up near the surface their love is distinct,
Like a garden surveyed in the sun,
In which seedtime and full bloom are credibly linked
By a consciousness shared and hard won.
Deep down below, where the world is a dream,
And the dream is a world of its own,
All manner of memories the moments redeem
In a place where one's never alone.
Fathers Can Be Solitary Mountains
Fathers can be solitary mountains,
All their love rock-like, steep, and strong.
Though warm and caring, somehow they belong
Halfway home to mothers' bubbling fountains.
Each of us needs love that knows no quarter,
Reminding us of bonds that cross a border,
Strengthening our sense of right and wrong.

Fathers Cannot Fathers Be

Fathers cannot fathers be
Alone, no matter where they are.
There is no mountain range or sea
High or wide enough to bar
Each child from traveling within,
Reuniting oft with him,
Secret sharer from afar.

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A Father and a Dad Are Not the Same

A father and a dad are not the same:
One can be a dad and not a father,
Or one can be a father and not bother
To earn through love the more endearing name.
Some find fatherhood a bit too tame,
Leaving all the details to the mother,
Or dumping the sweet burden on another
Man with just a passing twinge of shame.
You have been our dad so many years
That you've become the landscape that is home,
The mountain that we look to from afar.
No matter where we go we're not alone,
For you remain within to still our fears
And be the word that tells us who we are.
A Little Boy Needs Daddy
A little boy needs Daddy
For many, many things:
Like holding him high off the ground
Where the sunlight sings!
Like being the deep music
That tells him all is right
When he awakens frantic with
The terrors of the night.
Like being the great mountain
That rises in his heart
And shows him how he might get home
When all else falls apart.
Like giving him the love
That is his sea and air,
So diving deep or soaring high
He'll always find him there.
Daddy, I Love You
Daddy, I love you
For all that you do.
I'll kiss you and hug you
'Cause you love me, too.
You feed me and need me
To teach you to play,
So smile 'cause I love you
On this Father's Day.
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Farewell, My Friend and Confidante

Farewell, my friend and confidante!
As you go, so must I
Return upon the well-worn path
Each soul must travel by.
Wend where you will, my wanderer,
Even as you stay
Long-treasured in my lonely heart,
Loved well, though far away.
Good Luck, My Dearest
Good luck, my dearest! Come what may,
Our love will be the sea
On which you sail to golden shores,
Darling of the wind!
Love will bear you on your way
Until you're back with me,
Come home to peace amid your wars,
King of all within.
Goodbye, My Darling Foster Child
Goodbye, my darling foster child,
On to another home!
Open doors remain behind.
Do but turn, and you will find
Bestride your heart, my own.
You may the wind, unwept and wild,
Embrace, but not alone.
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Wilderness Is Anything but Wild

Wilderness is anything but wild.
It is an artifact of modern life.
Longing for innocence, we are beguiled,
Determined to re-virginize our wife.
Eons of humanity were there,
Resident in each ecology.
Nor can we go back further, for nowhere
Exist the plants and creatures we would see.
So we create what never was, a place
Set aside as a reserve for grace.
Twenty-Five
Twenty-five remembers when the world
Was not our slave, when rivers danced and sang
Entering their gauntlets, when grass and fire
Needed each other, and earth and flood. The choir
Then sang full throated, the food each season sprang
Yet thrashing to the feasts of those who served.
For thousands of millennia we lived
In harmony with those we ate, their spirits
Vested momently in flesh, their avid
Embers still in love with those who grieved.
Thirty-Two
Thirty-two guards well a sacred place,
Hallowed not by faith but by raw beauty.
In wilderness one finds an ancient other,
Remnant of a long-forsaken mother,
To safeguard which is both a joy and duty.
Years pass, yet he will guarantee this grace.
Tough and succulent, bare-boned and fruity,
Wilderness presents the world full face,
Over which no qualm has thrown its cover.
Global Warning
Global warning,
Likening us to lichens
Or pandering to pandas
Because we are bone of one bone
And flesh of one flesh:
Life can end.
What would we?
Are we driven to be driven?
Revved to rev?
Nor do we need what we need.
If each cell is a cellmate,
Now we must get on our knees,
Given time to be forgiven.
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Mysteries Are Often Most Mundane

Mysteries Are Often Most Mundane
Mysteries are often most mundane.
Every child is a child of God.
Revelation tends to come roughshod,
Rudely lying in, in Bethlehem.
Yet if God walked the Earth and then was slain,
Coming, like us all, encased in sod,
His holiness wrapped wholly in a clod,
Reason could not such a case sustain.
In faith alone can miracles be true,
Summoned to a certain time and place
To crack the mountain open to its well.
Mysteries hide Being from our view
As some go out to greet it face to face.
So it was one time in Israel.
Myths Are Hopes Refracted Through Our Pain
Myths are hopes refracted through our pain:
Each ray of justice bends into a bow
Resplendent, pure, symmetrical and sane,
Resolving into grace the world we know.
Yes, God walked among us out of love;
Christ suffered horribly that we might live;
His holy spirit watches, as a dove
Remains aloft, to witness and forgive.
In love the earth returns a special fire:
Sapphires linger in disheveled grass;
The snow burns eagerly; the blood runs higher;
Mountains melt into astonished brass.
All who love revere this sacred art,
Stunned and weeping at joy's battered heart.
No Christmas for My Children
No Christmas for my children,
No husband for my bed,
No money for tomorrow,
No place to lay my head,
No tree with mounds of presents,
No ornaments or lights,
No smiles on Christmas morning,
No feast on Christmas night,
No toys to ease the boredom
Of hours before closed doors,
No family celebrations,
No trips to crowded stores,
No fireplace, no Santa,
No games aglow with friends,
No fire but feeble fury
As Christmas slowly ends.
For me I have no pity,
My sorrow stronger proves,
Because for my sweet children
I've nothing but my love.
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Forty Years of Marriage Are a Pass

Forty years of marriage are a pass
On which one rests to see the view both ways,
Remembering the valleys left behind,
Taking in the grandeur just ahead.
Yet there is far too much for one to see.

Years of youth must blend like distant brass
Even as love knots the migrant days
And time blows through the moment like a wind.
Regret and gratitude are here well wed,
So much alike, one could the other be.


Forty Years Together You Have Loved

Forty years together you have loved,
Opening a door to love for me.
Romantic hearts bequeath a harmony
That proves more rich than any life might prove.
Years pour like water rapidly downstream,
Yielding harvests gleaned in fields to come,
Each waiting for the heart to bring it home,
Accumulating in an undreamt dream.
Rejoice, then, in a beauty never gone,
Sustained by songs more sweet because passed on.

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Our Mother Is the Sweetest

Our mother is the sweetest and
Most delicate of all.
She knows more of paradise
Than angels can recall.

She's not only beautiful
But passionately young,
Playful as a kid, yet wise
As one who has lived long.
Her love is like the rush of life,
A bubbling, laughing spring
That runs through all like liquid light
And makes the mountains sing.
And makes the meadows turn to flower
And trees to choicest fruit.
She is at once the field and bower
In which our hearts take root.
She is at once the sea and shore,
Our freedom and our past.
With her we launch our daring ships
Yet keep the things that last.
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Mere Happiness Is Not the Song I'm Singing

Mere happiness is not the song I'm singing:
Of mothers' joy a jagged piece is pain.
To love is to be amply burdened, bringing
Hearts with gifts to an uncharted plain.
Even so, one longs to be a mother,
Remembering a richness unreserved
'Ere one could barely recognize another,
Sustained by love unsought and undeserved.
Deeper than oneself is one's communion,
A revelation reached alone by union
Yet yearned for, though through years of love well served.

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How Much I Love You I Can't Say

How much I love you I can't say:
It's more than words can hold.
You're all at once my rich, red clay,
My potter and my mold.

Yours the words that shaped my voice,
The spirit within mine.
Yours the will that shaped my choice,
My fortune, and my sign.
How lucky I was to have had you
At the core of me!
Wise and good, you always knew
Just what I could be.
And so I came to be someone
Whom I could be proud of.
For this I give my swollen sum
Of gratitude and love.

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Hail to Aunts, Who Serve as Audience

Hail to aunts, who serve as audience,
Although at times it may be from afar!
Pleased to tender sympathy and sense;
Pleased to leave the inner door ajar.
Yet near or distant, the need remains the same:
Mothers could use extra tongues and ears,
Offering the care without the claim,
The friendship with the expertise of years.
However much an aunt is heard or seen,
Even though proximity is best,
Relationships depend on what they mean --
'Tis love that puts all reticence to rest.
So let us sing to aunts, that they may be
Delighted with their role, deservedly --
A speaking part in which the words they say
Yield fruit that nourishes an unseen day.

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