Alchemical Passes for Father and Son - Turning Thighs to Diamonds - In Three Passes
FIRST PASS
Or what man is there among you, of whom if his son
shall ask bread, will he reach him a stone? - Matthew 7: 9
No blame shall stain us now, father.
The heavy ball you hit to me is never caught,
a floppy glove always falls from a hesitant hand.
Mars in you still storms the makeshift diamond.
Each base of cardboard weighted with stone
is still our house; a bat, a ball, a mitt,
hard rules of the game mean to undo all
lust for dark heaven shunning shining girls.
I was reaching for god then - not your fault - a lavender
boy early befriended by crows, already resigned to what
was given and what was to come, a softball between the
eyes, your attempt to guide me toward those diamond
thighs which, you often repeated, were everywhere waiting.
I blink still before you, head down, focused on 'Lion's Teeth.' **
I am your hard mystery, and soft, not so fast for I am fat
and cannot round the bases quick. I am your inherited meek,
a burden to shake into a sliding man furious for home.
At four I pluck a wild strawberry you point to,
all authority and accidental grace, revealing much,
still dew wet, sticky to the touch, opening sourness
deserving my frown. You laugh at my dawning smile
for its sweetness slowly yielding, a surprise gift
for what will always unite us, your fear that I will
suffer, too, your fate, untended desire gone to wildness
brought low beneath branches, slow embrace of
cradle-gentle boughs entangling legs and light
between the greater shadows,
and shadows shall win the day.
In them my yearning grows yet,
remains for that of edges,
what is beyond them or beneath,
planets arcing and comets rare,
trailing lovers to come but meteors,
not the appointed stars of permanence
allowed to some men's hands,
and never to the fallen.
Still, these essential things are caught
for all our mostly wasted days of practice,
wild sweetness is a stolen base,
the tongue is an untended garden.
There is a burning soft hands can know
which shall finally run some headlong
for home at the end, an inherited circle,
a latter-day glad son gathering berries from shadows.
**Dandelion
SECOND PASS
Or what man is there among you, of whom if his son
shall ask bread, will he reach him a stone? - Matthew 7: 9
No blame shall stain us now, father.
The heavy ball you hit to me is never caught.
A floppy glove always falls from a hesitant hand.
Mars in you still storms the makeshift diamond.
Each base of cardboard weighted with stone is still our house.
A bat, a ball and mitt, hard rules of the game
undo all lust for dark heaven which shuns shining girls.
A lavender boy early
befriended by crows.
A softball between
the eyes guides.
Diamond thighs
everywhere waiting.
Before you, head down,
focused on 'Lion's Teeth'**,
I am a hard mystery,
and soft, not so fast for I
am fat and cannot round
the bases quick.
I, your inherited meek,
am a burden to shake,
a sliding man
furious for home.
*****
I pluck wild strawberries,
You, all authority and
accidental grace, reveal too much,
dew wet, still sticky to the touch.
Opening sourness deserves a frown.
Sweetness slowly yields
surprise for what always
unites father/son -
untended desire
gone to wildness
brought low
beneath branches,
slow embrace of
cradle-gentle boughs
entangling legs and
light between the
greater shadows.
And shadows shall win the day.
******
Planets arc
and comets rare
trail lovers.
Meteors are
not appointed
permanent stars
allowed to some
men's hands,
and never to the fallen
caught for mostly
wasted days.
*******
That wild sweetness is a stolen base.
That the tongue is an untended garden.
That there is a burning soft hands can know.
********
Finally runs something headlong
sliding for home
inheriting circles latter-day.
Glad sons (are)
berries from
shadows gathered.
**Dandelion
THIRD PASS
Wild strawberries,
all authority and
accidental grace,
reveal too much,
dew wet, still
sticky to the touch.
Opening sourness
deserves a frown.
Sweetness slowly
yields surprise for
what always unites -
untended desire
gone to wildness
brought low
beneath branches,
slow embrace of
cradle boughs,
entangled legs
and light.
And shadows shall win the day.
That wild sweetness is a stolen base.
That the tongue is an untended garden.
That there is a burning soft hands can know.
poem by Warren Falcon
Added by Poetry Lover
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