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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=535713" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Unexpected Fire, A Son's Cycle</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">for my father, <br>Major Warren Falcon, Sr.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Of Childhood Lamenting - Song of Experience</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Might I sing it then? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">How many stones he hauled</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Not bidden but rough forced</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Hand by hand from coagulate soil, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">A boy's red wagon rusting</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Full of spilled tumble-stones -</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Unyielding stars between the rows, silent.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Brooding father with</div><div style="margin:10px 0">His hoe to weed or ridge</div><div style="margin:10px 0">To row or brow to strike</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Made of a boy a mule and plow</div><div style="margin:10px 0">At Earth's farthest Edge</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Too ill-tilled to nurture</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But more to fracture.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Land and the boy turned by his</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Father's bad blood to waste.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Both boy and corn obedient</div><div style="margin:10px 0">To his And Greater Hand grew tall.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He hid there late summers in</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Fateful stalks, grew small on</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Shadowed afternoons reading of</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Exiled, royal Odysseus and scores</div><div style="margin:10px 0">More, native born and slave, driven</div><div style="margin:10px 0">From homing soil beyond surf, beyond tall</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Mountains and fragrances desert-walled.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>He waited, a stone for a small boy's hand, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Or a God's, to haul him or throw, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But it was his father's.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>I often stare now at my own to know the difference...</div><div style="margin:10px 0">*</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Adolescence - Praising.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Cleaning Fish On Good Friday,1966</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Fate, then, heavy in a boy's hand</div><div style="margin:10px 0">hoists dead weight to a nail on a tree.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">His knife scores firm flesh yielding</div><div style="margin:10px 0">beneath freshly limp gills - there is an</div><div style="margin:10px 0">instrument made just for this, pincher-pliers</div><div style="margin:10px 0">for catfish skin - he grips and tears, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">uses his weight down-stripping smoothly</div><div style="margin:10px 0">bare to such luscence little ribs of roseate flesh.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Only the overly large head, the ugly face</div><div style="margin:10px 0">whiskered within gilded monstrance, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">remain pure to form, thin-lipped and</div><div style="margin:10px 0">mocking, restrained by depth pressures, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">sustained on surface trash, dead things</div><div style="margin:10px 0">that sink down it's treasures.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Tenderly sing, then, to a nail </div><div style="margin:10px 0">a boy's blood catechism -</div><div style="margin:10px 0">hands, minds, meant to be stained, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">mercy's quality unstrained</div><div style="margin:10px 0">neither by will nor gill.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Scavenging flocks gladly fill their</div><div style="margin:10px 0">gullets inhaling entrails tossed</div><div style="margin:10px 0">in supplicant bins.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>In unison Gregorian they scream: </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>There is a nail for me</div><div style="margin:10px 0">plain, a chorus of barks** -</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>splintered lips</div><div style="margin:10px 0">punctuated surprise, </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>glossolalia of rivers</div><div style="margin:10px 0">now given weight.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>One can only will</div><div style="margin:10px 0">praise to 'The End', </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>and spill, after pliers, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">one's silken guts in offering.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>**A catfish when brought to shore barks, a rasping, barking discharge of air.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">*</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Middle Age - Awareness of Mortality Sure</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Our Mutual Confession</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Descending the hill in unplanned rehearsal<br>for what has become a destined association, <br>our mutual confession is invisibly drawn.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A ruined one-room church appears, <br>a cemetery plot weed-hidden behind this<br>once sentinel house long remote to men and<br>as present as God, my own presence is bound<br>to his who stands confounded now as three, <br>one above grave, one within it, and me<br>in between, one eye upon him, the other<br>upon sagging dirt where bones and a<br>ragged shirt share an unexpected<br>moment of veils confused in sunlight's<br>disarray of leaves, wood, of stone and<br>shadows frozen there, not breathing<br>for us all in unstoried astonishment.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Here horseflies feast.<br>Upon weathered stones are<br>only creases where once were<br>names, dates, even God's Word, <br>chiseled by a now unknown hand, <br>an impression only, one among many, <br>reduced to no plot but that of Providence<br>left to surmise swatting at Eucharistic<br>flies proving only flesh and only blood, <br>a flood of questions eventually exhaled, <br>and exhaling still, waiting beside<br>a white rock with wings, <br>ignoring fire, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">leaning into changes.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">*</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Middle-Age - Acceptance - Forgiveness</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Repose Of Needles</div><div style="margin:10px 0">For Sanju, </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>If you need to stand or lie<br>in the shade for awhile then<br>do so as farmers do, as does<br>my father who farms his despair<br>in hot sun then lays beneath<br>pines in cooler shade to rest, <br>to dream that activity between<br>dirt and sky means some lasting<br>thing in its doing even though<br>his ruined life cannot make<br>it right between clouds and<br>his obsession with weeds.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Between the garden and the<br>un-tilled woods he rests, <br>repose of needles and bark, <br>mid-day sun insisting its<br>question slowly. Night dawning<br>he at last in darkness stands<br>returned from day, a practical<br>vision of green shoots to come<br>from blistered hands.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Up hill to the colder house, <br>he wills himself to life enough, <br>speaks some words to wife, <br>arcs widely around silent wary<br>children and lives to be old.<br>His loss of memory leaves it<br>for others to forgive, to live on<br>in the rich rot of that ongoing<br>question which nurtures his<br>memory haltingly, gracefully, on.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Astonished, I have arrived at<br>love for him who hurt me most, <br>have learned to obey the odor<br>of decaying things compelling<br>hands to dirt. Within the dream<br>of staying, the tendril and the heart, <br>my aging body takes on my<br>father's form; I, too, like him, <br>am a farmer when I note how<br>it moves in its winding reach, <br>rooting, rising, giving horizon.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">*</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Reconciliation - Radiance: </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Psalm</div><div style="margin:10px 0">What can I bring to harvest but these<br>bruised hands, these cracked stones? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Praise to the fruit tree long untended<br>beneath mendicant stars.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A boy above, his Radio flyer** lightening full, <br>Reaches to me now en exilio, the farther flung.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Father, my most difficult, most diffident friend, <br>My most loving curse, <br>A strange and fragrant Grace arrives -</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Look.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">From unexpected fire</div><div style="margin:10px 0">comes frail, brief blossoms.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>*William Shakespeare</div><div style="margin:10px 0">**Radio Flyer is a toy company, famous for it's red wagons.<br>The company opened in 1917, the year of my father's birth.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Warren+Falcon">Warren Falcon</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=535713" data-title="Unexpected Fire, A Son's Cycle de Warren Falcon" data-description="for my father, 
Major Warren Falcon, Sr.


Of Childhood Lamenting - Song of Experience


Might I sing it then? 

How many stones he hauled

Not bidden but rough forced

Hand by hand from coagulate soil, 

A boy's red wagon rusting

Full of spilled..."></div>
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