History Of A Place, A Bombast, A Psalm In Voices Several
'What thou lovest well remains.'
- Ezra Pound, Canto 181
'Let him not be another's who can be his own.
- Paracelsus
1
'All this our South stinks peace.' - Ezra Pound
In exile, by whose hand unsure - mine, or those hammers of
The ill-starred fathers. Unsure yet on fire I fled their dredged,
God-flooded cotton plains, those self-appointed lords over
They who were deemed lesser dirt or worse. Those who did
Not sing self-praising songs belonged to lordly minds in Hell
So there to I fled and still make a bed there more content to
Be among the bastards for whom the Bard* pleads,
'Gods! stand up for! ' Ay. If the gods will not, and they do, I stand
Up and bray, a fool certain, but in the neighing take deity's cause
Upon Myself - Justice, Beauty, Mercurial Love's Sublimity
Though my heel be wounded by Adamic paternity.
2
Of late an old apple tree cracked,
Twice lightening struck. Dying, insistent
Urges, blooms anew tender shoots
Out of season. One resplendent limb reaches,
Just waking pink on tips, from all
The tangled rest for which I, too, reach,
Grasp and reclaim my own patch, my
Own history though scarred, attached
To hurting words, fists, and cornfields forever
Alien, though bittersweet when recalled -
A boy there, hard staring into distance, his wagon full of stones.
3
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 tumble-stones -
Unyielding stars between the rows, silent?
Brooding father with
His hoe to weed or ridge
To row or brow to strike,
Made of a boy a mule and plow
At Earth's farthest Edge
Too ill-tilled to nurture
But more to fracture.
Land and the boy turned by his
Father's bad blood to waste.
Both boy and corn obedient to
His And Greater Hand grew tall.
He hid there late summers in
Fateful stalks, grew small on
Shadowed afternoons reading of
Exiled, royal Odysseus and scores
More, native born and slave, driven
From homing soil beyond surf, beyond tall
Mountains and fragrances desert-walled.
He waited, a stone for a small boy's hand,
Or a God's, to haul him or throw,
But was his father's.
I often stare at my own now to know the difference...
4
The apple tree at his garden's stop I often climbed
Repledging myself to 'Anywhere but here'.
Beneath open sky a wind-swayed tree top cradles
Views of further hills reaching at land's edge,
Lake and barricading woods muted.
Soothed then, envisioning my nascent journey out
And away, I discover the most difficult to be that both
Land and father, a part of me still, require of me
a psalm.
5
Psalm
What can I bring to harvest but these
bruised hands, these cracked stones?
Praise to the fruit tree long untended
beneath mendicant stars.
A boy above, his Radio flyer** lightening full,
Reaches to me now en exilio, the farther flung.
Father, my most difficult, most diffident friend,
My most loving curse,
A strange and fragrant Grace arrives -
Look.
From unexpected fire
comes frail, brief blossoms.
*William Shakespeare
**Radio Flyer is a toy company, famous for it's red wagons.
The company opened in 1917, the year of my father's birth.
poem by Warren Falcon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Unexpected Fire, A Son's Cycle
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 tumble-stones -
Unyielding stars between the rows, silent.
Brooding father with
His hoe to weed or ridge
To row or brow to strike
Made of a boy a mule and plow
At Earth's farthest Edge
Too ill-tilled to nurture
But more to fracture.
Land and the boy turned by his
Father's bad blood to waste.
Both boy and corn obedient
To his And Greater Hand grew tall.
He hid there late summers in
Fateful stalks, grew small on
Shadowed afternoons reading of
Exiled, royal Odysseus and scores
More, native born and slave, driven
From homing soil beyond surf, beyond tall
Mountains and fragrances desert-walled.
He waited, a stone for a small boy's hand,
Or a God's, to haul him or throw,
But it was his father's.
I often stare now at my own to know the difference...
*
Adolescence - Praising.
Cleaning Fish On Good Friday,1966
Fate, then, heavy in a boy's hand
hoists dead weight to a nail on a tree.
His knife scores firm flesh yielding
beneath freshly limp gills - there is an
instrument made just for this, pincher-pliers
for catfish skin - he grips and tears,
uses his weight down-stripping smoothly
bare to such luscence little ribs of roseate flesh.
Only the overly large head, the ugly face
whiskered within gilded monstrance,
remain pure to form, thin-lipped and
mocking, restrained by depth pressures,
sustained on surface trash, dead things
that sink down it's treasures.
Tenderly sing, then, to a nail
a boy's blood catechism -
hands, minds, meant to be stained,
mercy's quality unstrained
neither by will nor gill.
Scavenging flocks gladly fill their
gullets inhaling entrails tossed
in supplicant bins.
In unison Gregorian they scream:
There is a nail for me
plain, a chorus of barks** -
splintered lips
punctuated surprise,
glossolalia of rivers
now given weight.
One can only will
praise to 'The End',
and spill, after pliers,
one's silken guts in offering.
**A catfish when brought to shore barks, a rasping, barking discharge of air.
*
Middle Age - Awareness of Mortality Sure
Our Mutual Confession
Descending the hill in unplanned rehearsal
for what has become a destined association,
our mutual confession is invisibly drawn.
A ruined one-room church appears,
a cemetery plot weed-hidden behind this
once sentinel house long remote to men and
as present as God, my own presence is bound
to his who stands confounded now as three,
one above grave, one within it, and me
in between, one eye upon him, the other
upon sagging dirt where bones and a
ragged shirt share an unexpected
moment of veils confused in sunlight's
disarray of leaves, wood, of stone and
shadows frozen there, not breathing
for us all in unstoried astonishment.
Here horseflies feast.
Upon weathered stones are
only creases where once were
names, dates, even God's Word,
chiseled by a now unknown hand,
an impression only, one among many,
reduced to no plot but that of Providence
left to surmise swatting at Eucharistic
flies proving only flesh and only blood,
a flood of questions eventually exhaled,
and exhaling still, waiting beside
a white rock with wings,
ignoring fire,
leaning into changes.
*
Middle-Age - Acceptance - Forgiveness
Repose Of Needles
For Sanju,
If you need to stand or lie
in the shade for awhile then
do so as farmers do, as does
my father who farms his despair
in hot sun then lays beneath
pines in cooler shade to rest,
to dream that activity between
dirt and sky means some lasting
thing in its doing even though
his ruined life cannot make
it right between clouds and
his obsession with weeds.
Between the garden and the
un-tilled woods he rests,
repose of needles and bark,
mid-day sun insisting its
question slowly. Night dawning
he at last in darkness stands
returned from day, a practical
vision of green shoots to come
from blistered hands.
Up hill to the colder house,
he wills himself to life enough,
speaks some words to wife,
arcs widely around silent wary
children and lives to be old.
His loss of memory leaves it
for others to forgive, to live on
in the rich rot of that ongoing
question which nurtures his
memory haltingly, gracefully, on.
Astonished, I have arrived at
love for him who hurt me most,
have learned to obey the odor
of decaying things compelling
hands to dirt. Within the dream
of staying, the tendril and the heart,
my aging body takes on my
father's form; I, too, like him,
am a farmer when I note how
it moves in its winding reach,
rooting, rising, giving horizon.
*
Reconciliation - Radiance:
Psalm
What can I bring to harvest but these
bruised hands, these cracked stones?
Praise to the fruit tree long untended
beneath mendicant stars.
A boy above, his Radio flyer** lightening full,
Reaches to me now en exilio, the farther flung.
Father, my most difficult, most diffident friend,
My most loving curse,
A strange and fragrant Grace arrives -
Look.
From unexpected fire
comes frail, brief blossoms.
*William Shakespeare
**Radio Flyer is a toy company, famous for it's red wagons.
The company opened in 1917, the year of my father's birth.
poem by Warren Falcon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Son Reaches For His Father's Hand
A Son Reaches For His Father's Hand
As they walk,
A son reaches
for his father's hand,
barely able to brush his fingertips.
Only sometime later,
the father wraps his fingers
around his son's
fallen hand.
The son looks into his father's eyes.
The father looks down,
a tear is heard
as it falls onto the clay soil.
The son tries hard
to move his legs fast,
to follow each of his father's strides.
The father looks down,
finally he adjusts his gait.
His son relieved,
breathes normally once more,
as he gratefully finds his pace.
At the woods' edge
the father chooses the path to the left.
Soon they are out of sight.
They see tall trees, fallen trees, rocks, mushrooms,
one beaver, two fawns,
three ponds with frogs and the like.
The son feels both excited and at peace
as they start on one of the trails back.
But this time the son gets to choose,
left or right.
During the entire walk
through serenity,
neither spoke.
They came to the grassland,
no longer just father and son,
as they had begun.
They returned
forever
spliced into one.
A simple walk in the woods,
by themselves in nature's blessed bosom,
can quitely re-compose
the fragmenting noises of daily life
into a largo of deepening love.
A moment of simplicity
with one of our own,
can dissove life's duplicity-
denying the frenetic pursuit
of the transient.
The sowing of seeds of love and loyalty,
in the most fragile, fertile of grounds,
creates children as Nature's true royalty.
It is their blessed spirits
which rest softly
on the breast of Mother Nature.
The years elapse, the child
now a father, takes his daughter
for a walk in the woods.
Her age, about the same
as his back then.
He asks her which way she would
like to go.
She points to the right.
Moments pass,
soon they are part of the woods.
The father reaches down,
embraces her tiny hand.
She squeezes, then sort of kneeds his.
They see into each others' eyes.
She and he reach for each other.
He lifts her to his chest
as she wraps her arms
tightly around his neck.
The sparrows, look down,
then turning skyward, sing smiling.
The surrounding peacefulness
whispers itself
into father and daughter,
each of them forever together,
with mitered hearts.
Mike August 04/12/2009
poem by Mike August
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Temporary Poem Of My Time
Hebrew writing and Arabic writing go from east to west,
Latin writing, from west to east.
Languages are like cats:
You must not stroke their hair the wrong way.
The clouds come from the sea, the hot wind from the desert,
The trees bend in the wind,
And stones fly from all four winds,
Into all four winds. They throw stones,
Throw this land, one at the other,
But the land always falls back to the land.
They throw the land, want to get rid of it.
Its stones, its soil, but you can't get rid of it.
They throw stones, throw stones at me
In 1936, 1938, 1948, 1988,
Semites throw at Semites and anti-Semites at anti-Semites,
Evil men throw and just men throw,
Sinners throw and tempters throw,
Geologists throw and theologists throw,
Archaelogists throw and archhooligans throw,
Kidneys throw stones and gall bladders throw,
Head stones and forehead stones and the heart of a stone,
Stones shaped like a screaming mouth
And stones fitting your eyes
Like a pair of glasses,
The past throws stones at the future,
And all of them fall on the present.
Weeping stones and laughing gravel stones,
Even God in the Bible threw stones,
Even the Urim and Tumim were thrown
And got stuck in the beastplate of justice,
And Herod threw stones and what came out was a Temple.
Oh, the poem of stone sadness
Oh, the poem thrown on the stones
Oh, the poem of thrown stones.
Is there in this land
A stone that was never thrown
And never built and never overturned
And never uncovered and never discovered
And never screamed from a wall and never discarded by the builders
And never closed on top of a grave and never lay under lovers
And never turned into a cornerstone?
Please do not throw any more stones,
You are moving the land,
The holy, whole, open land,
You are moving it to the sea
And the sea doesn't want it
The sea says, not in me.
Please throw little stones,
Throw snail fossils, throw gravel,
Justice or injustice from the quarries of Migdal Tsedek,
Throw soft stones, throw sweet clods,
Throw limestone, throw clay,
Throw sand of the seashore,
Throw dust of the desert, throw rust,
Throw soil, throw wind,
Throw air, throw nothing
Until your hands are weary
And the war is weary
And even peace will be weary and will be.
Translated from the Hebrew by Barbara and Benjamin Harshav
poem by Yehuda Amichai
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Beneath A Desert Moon
From the mountains of the moon to the mighty delta
From the deserts of the West to the shining sea
Beneath the canopy of stars flowed the serpent river
Flowing through my father's land that he left to me
From the baker to the priest to the candle maker
From the highest to the low in my father's land
We make our offer to the sun 'fore the break of morning
Or else everything we have will just turn to sand
I have a lot to ask
I have a lot that I need to say
I have so much to do
And all I need is another day
From the soldier to the scribe to the carpet maker
All the different colored threads in a carpet loom
A woven tapestry of life is our mighty nation
This is the writing on the wall of my father's tomb
We have a lot to ask
We have a lot that we need to say
We have so much to do
And all we need is another day
Beneath the desert moon I call you
Beneath the desert moon I sing
Beneath the desert moon so lonely
I'm just a boy who would be king
With just the moon to guide us
We sometimes lose our way
If there's a light inside us
We'll follow, follow it to the brightness of the day
Every single blade of grass every yellow flower
Every ripple on the sea or the blue blue Nile
Every leaf on every tree every single creature
From the smallest little bird to the crocodile
We have a lot to ask
We have a lot that we need to say
We have so much to do
And all we need is another day
Beneath the desert moon I call you
Beneath the desert moon we sing
Beneath the desert moon we're waiting
Before the coming of the king
Beneath the desert moon that's sinking
We see the Eastern skies on fire
This is where darkness leaves
And shining waters fall
And let the shadows run
And we'll say, "welcome to the sun"
Brand new day...
From the mountains of the moon to the mighty delta
From the deserts of the West to the shining sea
Beneath the canopy of stars flowed the serpent river
Flowing through my father's land that he left to me
song performed by by Sting
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Father Unite Us
Today my prayer will be short and sweet for you Father has given me yet another day to stand with strength upon my feet. Father I ask only one thing in this short little prayer. I ask Father that you unite all the people of this earth as one. I ask Father that you help us to realize that we really are sisters and brothers, that we are covered by the blood of the lamb, that no one can come between us while we are holding your glorious hand. Father unite us so that we will grow strong and able to fight the enemy. Protect us Father while we stand as soldiers under your great umbrella. Let us find peace in this world Father. I leave it all to you Father for you are our great leader, you are the King, You have the ability to make great mountains crumble and to part the rough waters of the sea, you are the all knowing and the great almighty.
Father I leave this prayer for peace to you, knowing that you will know what to do.
I pray Father in the name of your precious son Jesus. Amen
Written: March 2,2008
poem by Melvina Germain
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Dads Cherry Tree
There was a large cherry tree in my yard
This tree t’was my dad ‘s favorite
And as the cherry tree grew up to thy sky
He did have a decision
whether or not to chop the tree down
Or risk it falling and killing him
For you see this old cherry tree did
Stand right over his bed
So if the wind kick up or lightning did strike
Would be his end for
The tree would fall and he would go
So unfortunately with the tree
So he would make great decision
And hopefully make it right
It took him many years and many a time
He thought’s the did spite
Him for the year’s went by and the cherry tree
Got more demised, nearer to the bed
As he would lay and begin to wonder
Will this take off my head
So as the year the did expire
Then He finally said
I will take the old tree down
Above my own bed
And the so alas the cherry fell
The tree would breathe its last
And be cut down to stump and be
Safe for dad once again
The tree was made low and the branches did go
Right into the meat smoker
But out of the ash cloud grew another
through the thorns and choker
the tree did live on in another a tree that grew
and so the tree was reborn
from a cherry, the trees great fruit
and so this little sapling grew and it grew
and it grew 1,2,3 foot by the crowing of the year
and so it grew and it got taller
as a little sapling then might or would do
and the tree got no smaller
as it grew to be as tall as dad and it was
staring him in the eye
he said we got to dig this up
look at the size
for you see the little sapling was right in my garden
and blocking the sunshine
so we dug and dug and dug
it took a lot of time
but finally we got up pulled it out of the ground
and moved to better spot
were it would live in peace and harmony
the place we set was not to hot
But it was not to cold either, it was
It was a nice spot with all
of the tree for the young cherry’s company
the tree grew very tall
And with it happy position that there was
it was a great sight
To see this cherry tree again live
And never have to fight
Now when my dad he did see this
he was so overjoyed
He had his cherry tree’s son and offspring
And never again did he toy
With planting or cutting down old cherry trees
He loved his tree so dear
That he would be indeed collecting all the cherries
And never wrong was he steered
poem by Timothy Young
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The Blackthorn
The blackthorn was his father's,
a piece of Ireland
that the old man could still get his hands around
even as his hands grew weak,
refused to hold. My father
never knew Ireland;
when he gripped the walking stick
it was something else he was holding on to.
I watched my father
get old; he would stare at his hand
and open and close his fist,
try to fight the arthritis.
By then he had lost the stick,
and he could have used it
to work his grip, to beat
at the hard knot that was tying him up.
When he died he was laid in the ground
only a few feet from his father,
while in Ireland the sturdy blackthorns
were defying that sad land
and bursting with white blossoms.
Anonymous submission.
poem by Louis McKee
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Father
Father, blessed father,
Its morning again.
I give you, father, myself, father,
Continue your plan.
I know together we can climb mountains in the sky.
No one can stop us when Im standing by your side.
Troubles knocking here again;
Ill tell him jesus has me by his hand.
Hell walk me through.
Father, loving father,
Create in me
A pure love, father, your love, father,
Instill it in me.
I remember the nights Ive cried for you;
Now I only have to die for you;
Thank you, lord, youve made it clear just for me.
I see the light;
Its burning out the night.
Oh, father,
Its morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
Morning.
song performed by by Amy Grant
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Tribute To Our Fathers
Black sheep son's father
What a grief to be!
Fool's teacher doth but
Potsherds glues apiece.
Father's heroism ring out
And blessing rain upon yourself;
At noble father cock a snook
And basket-full sorrows harvest.
The flo'er of youth maximize
But not 'gainst noble father.
Better "No" when 'live and strong
Than spite at his solemn sleep.
Cock your ear and be under his wings
For o'er you The Supreme honours him.
Father's blessing the son's hand strengthens
But father's curse a fatal road paves.
Yourself never praise
On your father's snub;
His disdain yours is,
His praise yours too is.
poem by Christian Tobechukwu Okafor
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Dear Father
Why did you part me from yourself, dear father, why?
You've given houses with two stories to my brothers,
And to me, a foreign land? Why dear father, why?
We (daughters) are just cows tied to your peg,
Will move on to where ever you drive us to, dear father.
We are just flower-buds of your garden,
And are asked for, in every household, dear father.
We are just birds from your cage,
Will fly off when its dawn again, dear father.
I've left at home, alcoves full of dolls;
And parted from my buddies too, dear father.
When my palanquin passed beneath the terrace,
My brother fainted and fell, dear father.
As I remove the curtain from the palanquin,
I see we've reached the beloved's house, dear father.
Why did you part me from yourself, dear father, why?
poem by Amir Khusro
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Genesis (In The Beginning)
In the beginning there was nothingness and God but waved his hand
and from the endless void there sprang the beauty of the land
and high above the canyon walls the diamond stars were new
and breezes blew from nothingness and herbs and grasses grew
and silent creatures roamed the Earth and multiplied their [Do7]kind
and man was but a molecule that God had left behind.
Chorus:
We have grown we have grown, we have captured the throne
of the kingdom God made for our winning.
We have grown we have grown, but our children alone
have so little time left for beginning.
And mountains sprang and chaos rang the overture of life
and rivers coursed the twisted blade of natures sharpest knife
and cut beneath the rolling dales a gateway to the sea
while tidal waves and mighty gales were heard in symphony
and sunshine fell upon the waves and warmed the virgin land
and from the mud a drop of blood was left upon the sand.
(Chorus)
And eagles flew from craggy peaks above the garden wall.
The drop of blood became a man, the tree of life grew tall.
And perfect in his loneliness, a rib pulled from his chest
formed a sweet companion of pulchritude and breast.
And from the tree of knowledge God said they could not eat.
And perfect was their paradise unto the serpent at their feet.
(Chorus)
Tree of knowledge, tree of death, upon the ground they trod.
The serpent said your eye's will see and ye will be a god.
Defy the word and eat the fruit and ye will never die
and you will chart your destiny and rule the Earth and sky.
And man was banished east of Eden. See what we have lost.
For though the father sets the price, the children pay the cost.
(Chorus)
song performed by by Don McLean
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Bastard Son's Story
I stand before you Father,
but you refuse to see
Oh dear Father, have I fallen from the tree
of your good grace, our last embrace
now a memory
Oh Father, have you forgotten me
I kneel before you Father
But you do not feel
Oh dear Father, have you forsaken me
I am your flesh and blood
Dear Father, look at me!
I am your ill-begotten history
© 2009 Sonya Florentino
poem by Sonya Florentino
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Father Of Night
Father of night, father of day,
Father, who taketh the darkness away,
Father, who teacheth the bird to fly,
Builder of rainbows up in the sky,
Father of loneliness and pain,
Father of love and father of rain.
Father of day, father of night,
Father of black, father of white,
Father, who build the mountain so high,
Who shapeth the cloud up in the sky,
Father of time, father of dreams,
Father, who turneth the rivers and streams.
Father of grain, father of wheat,
Father of cold and father of heat,
Father of air and father of trees,
Who dwells in our hearts and our memories,
Father of minutes, father of days,
Father of whom we most solemnly praise.
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Child Dying
Unfriendly friendly universe,
I pack your stars into my purse,
And bid you so farewell.
That I can leave you, quite go out,
Go out, go out beyond all doubt,
My father says, is the miracle.
You are so great, and I so small:
I am nothing, you are all:
Being nothing, I can take this way.
Oh I need neither rise nor fall,
For when I do not move at all
I shall be out of all your day.
It's said some memory will remain
In the other place, grass in the rain,
Light on the land, sun on the sea,
A flitting grace, a phantom face,
But the world is out. There is not place
Where it and its ghost can ever be.
Father, father, I dread this air
Blown from the far side of despair
The cold cold corner. What house, what hold,
What hand is there? I look and see
Nothing-filled eternity,
And the great round world grows weak and old.
Hold my hand, oh hold it fast-
I am changing! - until at last
My hand in yours no more will change,
Though yours change on. You here, I there,
So hand in hand, twin-leafed despair -
I did not know death was so strange.
poem by Edwin Muir
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The Boy Crusader
“Oh father, is that Jerusalem—
Those walls and towers so strong!”
“Ho, boy, we are yet in our own fair France,
That is only Avignon.”
* * * * *
“Oh father, are these the Jordan's banks?
Let us rest in those vineyards fair”
“Ho, boy, these are only the banks of the Rhone,
And we may not linger there.”
* * * * *
“Oh father, I fear them—the waves! the waves!
Is Jerusalem over the sea?”
“Ay, over the sea and then over the hills—
But cling, my boy, to me.”
* * * * *
“Oh father, is that Jerusalem,
Like a shell of gold in the bay?”
Nay, it is only Palermo, boy;
And this is Saint Rosalie's day.”
* * * * *
“Oh father, I feared the sea, but more
I fear this burning sand”
“Good cheer, my boy; take heart of grace,
We tread upon holy land.”
* * * * *
“Oh father, can it be Holy Land,
With all this blood and death?”
“That was Acre we stormed, my boy;
Now let us to Nazareth.”
* * * * *
“Oh father, the hills are so high—so high!
Is Jerusalem very far?”
“Hush, hush, my boy, and I'll tell you the tale
Of the Kings who followed the Star.”
* * * * *
“Oh father, the hills are so steep—so steep!
Will Jerusalem soon be near?”
“Boy, what had it been had you carried the cross,
Instead of your father's spear?”
* * * * *
“Oh father, I am weary and faint;
This must be Calvary!”
“Good cheer, my boy; but one hill more;
Jerusalem is nigh.
“The men-at-arms have passed the ridge.
Hark, boy, how the warriors sing!”
“I only hear the sound of harps,
And waters murmuring.”
‘Wake, boy, this is no time to fail!
Oh best of happy hours!
Behold at length Jerusalem—
Its gates, and domes, and towers!”
“Father, I see Jerusalem,
Ah, nearer than you deem!”
“Your eyes are closed, you see it not,
Or see it in a dream!
“Your eyes are closed, my boy, my boy!
Your face is to the West!”
“Father, I see it overhead,
And, oh, so full of rest!
“There are little children clothed in white,
And angels leading them;
There are streets of gold and gates of pearl!
At last—Jerusalem.
“And our little Marie is beckoning me,
In her hand a diadem.
Father, I must go on before
We'll meet in Jerusalem.”
poem by James Brunton Stephens
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Preparatory Meditations - First Series: 29
(John. 20:17. My Father, and your Father, to my God, and your God)
My shattered fancy stole away from me
(Wits run a-wooling over Eden's park)
And in God's garden saw a golden tree,
Whose heart was all divine, and gold its bark.
Whose glorious limbs and fruitful branches strong
With saints and angels bright are richly hung.
Thou! Thou! my dear dear Lord, art this rich tree,
The tree of life within God's Paradise.
I am a withered twig, dried fit to be
A chat cast in Thy fire, writh off by vice.
Yet if Thy milk-white gracious hand will take me
And graft me in this golden stock, Thou'lt make me.
Thou'lt make me then its fruit, and branch to spring,
And though a nipping east wind blow, and all
Hell's nymphs with spite their dog's sticks therat ding
To dash the graft off, and its fruits to fall,
Yet I shall stand Thy graft, and fruits that are
Fruits of the tree of life Thy graft shall bear.
I being graft in Thee, there up do stand
In us relations all that mutual are.
I am Thy patient, pupil, servant, and
Thy sister, mother, dove, spouse, son, and heir.
Thou art my priest, physician, prophet, king,
Lord, brother, bridegroom, father, everything.
I being graft in Thee I am grafted here
Into Thy family, and kindred claim
To all in heaven, God, saints, and angels there.
I Thy relations my relations name.
Thy father's mine, Thy God my God, and I
With saints and angels draw affinity.
My Lord, what is it that Thou dost bestow?
The praise on this account fills up, and throngs
Eternity brimful, doth overflow
The heavens vast with rich angelic songs.
How should I blush? How tremble at this thing,
Not having yet my gam-ut learned to sing.
But, Lord, as burnished sunbeams forth out fly,
Let angel-shine forth in my life outflame,
That I may grace Thy graceful family
And not to Thy relations be a shame.
Make me Thy graft, be Thou my golden stock.
Thy glory then I'll make my fruits and crop.
poem by Edward Taylor
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No father?
i told my father it was so and i got up and left him then you know
though there was nowhere i had to go and nothing i had to do
i stand before you father
but you refuse to see
oh father, have you forgotten me?
i kneel before you father
but you do not feel
i am your flesh and same blood
if only you knew
if only i could tell you your an ass
if only i could say and put into words what you've put me through
if only you were around to say good job
as a father you have failed
as a father you were never there
i am ill be gotten history
...no father?
poem by Calvin Jenkins
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Hymn After The Emancipation Proclamation
GIVER of all that crowns our days,
With grateful hearts we sing thy praise;
Through deep and desert led by Thee,
Our promised land at last we see.
Ruler of Nations, judge our cause!
If we have kept thy holy laws,
The sons of Belial curse in vain
The day that rends the captive's chain.
Thou God of vengeance! Israel's Lord!
Break in their grasp the shield and sword,
And make thy righteous judgments known
Till all thy foes are overthrown!
Then, Father, lay thy healing hand
In mercy on our stricken land;
Lead all its wanderers to the fold,
And be their Shepherd as of old.
So shall one Nation's song ascend
To Thee, our Ruler, Father, Friend,
While Heaven's wide arch resounds again
With Peace on earth, good-will to men!
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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A Blessed Land
A blessed land
Yields Abundance from its soil,
It mountains hand
Its people, Harvest for their toil.
A faithful womb
That births forth much Provision,
She's one from whom
We sow our bountiful nutrition.
Our blessed land
We pray God keep Her so!
And that we stand
United, together make Her grow.
God bless Her with Peace
His Truth upon Her, shine-
May the Grace that is His
Bless this lovely land of mine!
'May the favor of the LORD rest upon us,
establish the work of our hands for us...
Psalm 90: 17
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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The Child's Evening Hymn
Father! while the daylight dies,
Hear our grateful voices rise:
For the blessings that we share,
For thy kindness and thy care,
For the joy that fills our breast;
For the love that makes us blest,
We thank thee, Father.
For an earthly father's arm,
Shielding us from wrong and harm;
For a mother's watchful cares,
Mingled with her many prayers;
For the happy kindred band,
'Midst whose peaceful links we stand,
We bless thee, Father.
Yet while ‘neath the evening skies,
Thus we bid our thanks arise,
Father! still we think of those,
Who are bow'd with many woes,
Whom no earthly parent's arm
Can protect from wrong and harm;
The poor slaves, Father.
Ah! while we are richly blest,
They are wretched and distrest!
Outcasts in their native land,
Crush'd beneath oppression's hand,
Scarcely knowing even thee,
Mighty Lord of earth and sea!
Oh, save them, Father!
Touch the flinty hearts, that long
Have, remorseless, done them wrong;
Ope the eyes that long have been
Blind to every guilty scene;
That the slave—a slave no more—
Grateful thanks to thee may pour,
And bless thee, Father
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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