#52: Sire De-Sire (Fatherhood)

Young Prophets Keep Crying,
Young Believers Keep Buying,
Young Sportsmen Keep Trying,
Young Soldiers Keep Dying!
Or:
From The Moment Of His Very First Waddle,
The Boy Must Stretch To Fit The Model!

We searched the house to find it bare
of all domestic trace,
right down to the missing ashes,
gone from the fireplace.

We heard the stereo's music from
all points around the grounds.
Whatever we were meant to find
was held within those sounds.

I guess we leaned against the wall
for better than an hour,
until the songs repeated, though
not to lose their power.

A hairy voice cried cradled cats . . .
a silver spoon and moon,
and someone's best intentions for
getting together soon.

Then a request for the family car . . .
a real desire to please,
but not the time to talk that much,
once he had the keys.

Then some cat-daddy started to scratch
'bout time to slow and halt . . .
". . . take it easy, you're still young . . ."
and that is all your fault.

All the times that some cat sang,
and all the times he cried,
I guess he kept the things he knew
all locked up inside.

Something about the same old story, and
the moment you can speak,
you're ordered to simply listen,
or the elder cats will freak.

A dainty dan, a brother of two,
sang of an only child,
a cabinet maker's only son,
so all alone and wild.

There were 'thank yous' for the music,
and times when he was tough . . .
and some self-castigation for
not thanking him enough.

And then a brown and agile child
sang out apology
for words that stuck inside his heart
as much as memory.

In anguish, he would cry out loud,
regretting sins of youth,
especially when the flowering child
takes razor to his roots.

Is the anger of one's growing up
always so intense
that poets find such easy fame
in emotion's recompense?

And why is it that all young men
must answer to their dads?
What loan is it, co-signed in youth,
comes due for all these lads?

I did not say these words out loud,
though thinking was intense.
A thunderous clap then shook the ground
with the Voice's entry, "Gents!"

Now stained with grass, Jo-Mima dived
head first into the lawn.
I spoke as meekly as I could, "Uh . . .
we thought that you were gone."

"Important questions have their way
of waking me somehow . . .
besides, you guys should be so much
further on by now.

Now, this Father thing . . . it's no big deal . . .
it's souls and blood and genes.
You remember what you found a word
like 'family' really means.

Unfortunately, mortals are wont throughout
their tragic temporal range,
to trade life's real significance for
an emotional exchange.

The Father becomes, without a script,
the guide for some new life,
in every scene not already staged
for a spotlight on his wife.

The Son cries out for meaning, and
so cleverly disguised
as anger, spite and vengeance,
still forcefully denies . . .

the values, habits, fears and loves
that wind up, ultimately . . .
the very thread and fabric for
the quilt of family.

When insults seem more hammered than
any lessons' nails,
the Father turns his back in shame . . .
it's always he who fails.

By the time the Son shares more with friends
than drinking lots of beers,
he's left with nothing but regret
for cursed, younger years.

And the Father sees the fears he's known
mask an arrogant face . . .
and though he cannot guide one step,
has compassion for the pace.

The Son comes home, forgiven for
his ever being young.
The Father frets his battles lost,
and even some he's won.

And when the Son is pretty sure
he knows his way around,
he finds a girl and marries, and
he starts to settle down.

And rejoicing on that day, when to
the Son a Son is born,
the Father hides his knowing grin . . .
his Son will wake one morn . . .

to find the Prince has heaved all night . . .
a stinking, wino putz . . .
pronouncing to the new son-dad,
'I hate your fucking guts'."

"So you're saying it's just a cycle,
shared by every male . . .
first biting the hand that feeds you,
then bitten in the tail?"

"Don't blame me, it's just the way
you humans live it out.
Actually, there's a great deal more
to what it's all about.

Beyond genetics and behavior . . .
Piaget and Skinner,
the imprint of the Father's soul
determines saint or sinner.

The heir is more than blood and genes,
and may not, either, be.
The Father's most important gift
is strong philosophy . . .

an ethic of work and sacrifice,
a respect for fellow man . . .
to love and teach the children,
to instill a sense of 'can' . . .

to help him see his mind as key,
to unlock any bars . . .
to expose the ruses of false gods,
and introduce the stars . . .

to example pride of doing your best,
and sense of 'job well done' . . .
These are the most important things
a Father gives his Son."

The Voice was silent. I looked at Jo,
as music from inside
rose to lift us to our feet,
and pushed us toward our ride.