my father is dead, again

(for my father-friend tom dent)

1.

i was thousands of miles away

when tom's tree fell

the weight of missing him

answers the age question

because

his aftershock's tremble

reverberates within

the chamber of my skull

at all

the oddest moments

like discovering a special person

within the skin of a child of time

and discerning at the same time

a lady i used to be

a lady whose love

shaped me

there are periods

when our ability to perceive

presence and potential

is predicated

on having been groomed

by those who have gone before

on having been shown

how to see beyond

what is now

what is known, how

to appreciate the shape

of things to come

all this prescience a product

of learning the living wisdom

some come from a brusque old man

whose gruffiness was so tender

so touching

in its honest intimacy

as he suggested that

there was something beyond

what ever was

and is, and yes, even will be

there is always

something more

something better

to be/come

2.

english words were never meant

to adequately articulate

the anguish in our mouths, our hearts

when we lose the stretching part

of our selves--the stairs we climb

to see further, to descend deeper

as we look out and over

past the limits of horizon line

our vision is improved when we stand

on the shoulders of elders

whose height hoists us higher

than we could ever grow

if we remained flat-footed

married to the ground

the view from these human

balconies enables us to eye

not just near and far

but also back and down into the wells

of our own personalities

if we are fortunate

we have fathers

who help us 

clearly see

depths

as well as distances

3.

perhaps a moan

is the most profound

sound one can make

when a father is gone

when my first father died

i cried publicly

this death time my tears

for tom are silent

words on paper

the two times

a man is most

alone

are when

he loses

a father and when he

loses his own

life -- his

beginning his end

4.

in the new orleans

that tom knew

old griots die singing

they do not go silently

into some lonely night

in his new orleans

we do not kill our fathers

to prove that we have arrived

but rather we learn

from them that we can

crack open the kernel

of our becoming

only by completing

the final maneuver

of life's ultimate passage rite

the step of accepting the torch

and making of ourselves a light

volunteering

to lift the father spirit

to shoulder the responsibility

of becoming beacon

for those newly born

and those yet to come

in our new orleans we do not stop

at simply burying aged bodies

we also dance forward from funeral line

and accept the awesome

task of filling father shoes

if i really come from

a house of the rising sun,

if i really believe

in resurrection

if i am really

my father's son

then i must be reborn

be his life

after life

5.

in earth ways

my father is dead, again.

but yet again

he lives

the older i become

the more people i contain

another of my fathers

is dead

long live

my father

long live my father

in me

long live

my many fathers

long live

long live

all the fathers

i am

and all the fathers

i will ever be

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