Tag: life

Ma

by Stephen J Frankenberry8 Comments on Ma

Been holding off on posting of my mother’s passing here until I wrote something for her. Now what I have here doesn’t even scratch the surface of what she meant to us and our family and her friends, but, like my Dad, who passed around 30 or so years ago now, she was important, so very important.

And that’s it right?

For all of the sanity that I sometimes wish I still had, or at least present, she was the one who helped me keep up that appearance.

/////

Phone rings

“Hello?”

“Hey Ma!”

“Oh Hi Stephen … how are you?

“I’m good Ma”

“Everything ok?”

“Yeah, everything is fine, all good, just wanted to call and check in on ya. Are you Ok?”

“Yes, I’m fine … you sure you’re all right? You sound like you’re ready to cry, is it another of your cats Stephen? Oh, bloody hell, you and those cats. Who is it this time?”

“No, the cats are good Ma, and it’s Bella and Cricket now, Cricket the blind one …”

“The blind one, you have a blind cat? Well good for you for giving one a spot. Wait, is it a girl again? Hold on, I’m thinking is it …”

“No, no girl this time around Ma, and it’s been a really long time for that anyway, no I just wanted to check on you, see how you were”

“I’m all good Stephen. Your Dad says Hi by the way”

/////

Email from Aunt Lib:

I waited a couple of days to reach out to you.

I will miss Linda. She was not just a sister-in-law but a friend.

It was not easy to see Linda the last couple of years. When Elfriede and I would go over most times to meet Becca we always could laugh and enjoy our stories together.

I hope, Linda, while openly participating knew how much joy she brought to all of us.

Stephen. Try, when you are by yourself , you will say a special prayer for your parents. I hope that God will hear our prayers. I know Joey has been praying for you and watching over his Lin

I am in Oregon, will see you in February.

Love Aunt Lib

Reply:

Thanks Aunt Lib. I haven’t sat down to write something for Mom just yet but I have been sending myself notes and reminders of what I want to say. I know that’s when I will most probably break down numerous times so I need to not have anywhere to be for a few days, so probably this weekend when I work up the courage. My prayers will be in there. 

And yes, she was your friend, and you indeed were hers. Mom was obviously a very warm and caring, friendly person who had many friends over the years but none could hold a candle to you, Elfriede and Marina (and Aunt Anne as well, though with the distance). You were her almost lifelong bests and you were her strength when she needed it and I will thank you now for her … and start to tear up. 

I will indeed see you in February Aunt Lib. 

Love ya

Reply:

Thank you I am now tearing up so is Kathleen.

Take your time. Never rush love.

Love you aunt lib

/////

Messenger to my Mikey Six with some personalization for each (my group of most important immediates who I have for years forced my shit on upon finishing whatever was the latest, a poem, or a tune or a funny post that probably only made ME laugh and a Mikey Six who are more, actually a Mikey ten or so now … but that is a good thing)  

Hey JJ. So, my Mom, Ma, passed away Monday night, apologies a few days late though, it’s been a week my friend and I have been a bit overwhelmed. But she passed after only the text from Beck early Monday afternoon to give me the heads up of the final turn, that of course I knew was coming, that we all knew was coming, ups and downs over the last few weeks left things in a limbo but a one we knew wasn’t really a limbo at all, but Jesus dude it was the longest, most heartbreaking 36 hours in history, or at least mine and my Sis’s and even worse for my brother who is in Louisiana.

I went down to her assisted living place Monday to see and sit with her after that text and a call with Beck, along with Beck and Nephew Matt and Buck and to see some of the hardest quietly loud attempts to open an eye, one or the other, amid labored breath and then I drove back up home that night to make sure of the cats, Beck’s and Bella and Cricket, even though Matt has a friend who could have handled it I just couldn’t leave things to someone else, it’s fucking cold out there especially with a couple of Beck’s being inside/outsides, and that wouldn’t have been be fair to Matt’s friend, if only for some god forbid added heartbreak (I’m a house cat kind of guy because of such heartbreak) I just couldn’t leave that kind of thing to him.

So I came home, to check in and sit when Beck called to tell me, waiting the clock of my ride (she didn’t want to call me on my way) that Mom had passed not too long after I had left and after Matt and Buck made a quick out to grab some food and Beck told me of her playing some horrible guitar for her while telling her she could go. She had seen us and we were there and we were good and she was good as well and Mom just, well I guess, said ok and left. And she left while maybe even saying “Jesus Beck, after all these years of ongoing lessons of yours this is what you got right now?”

And you know, the dumbest thing, though I already have the post I want, need, to write for her, and am working on now and has been in my head for the most part anyway, 10 hours in the car, back and forth, with no tunes and just some pretty passing scenery on the Thruway, or even not so pretty (there are a lot of dead homes and failed places along the way and too many thoughts of time), I came home and instead finished the dumbest of silly posts I’ve had waiting for a few weeks, “Jesus Stephen, after all these years of you writing things this is what you got right now? That’s Ok though, I understand”

I’d like to think that maybe she might also say, keep playing Beck and keep writing Stephen.

Anyway my friend, a post for Mom to come.

Cheers JJ

Love

/////

“So what is the murder mystery tonight Ma?”

“Murder she Wrote. I love Angela Lansbury though I always know who did it, and early”

“But Man Ma, that Cabot Cove is the most dangerous sleepy small town in America huh?”

The first time I said that to her she laughed her Mom laugh, that warm, genuine one. I would say it on occasion again, in different phone calls but always with the same, warm laugh.

/////

I sat on the end and edge of my bed, almost not sitting on it at all and cried, genuinely being heartbroken but also leaving my bedroom door cracked open just enough for the drama of me to sound through. Now mind you I really was heartbroken but heartbreak never wants to be lonely however much it may claim to.

My freshman year had been a wonder and a glorious time and I befriended and looked up to quite a few seniors (though not without laying the groundwork of a lifelong friendship with three of my Mikey Six) and one of these seniors was a girl I had quite a crush on (one other as well though that is a story for another time).

But, after graduation, she was to be living in a town near mine at home in Mahopac NY. Katonah (I can never head down 684 south towards the city and pass Katonah without thinking of her) and on her own, in her new “starter” place, with a new job, to start her journey in the “real” world and “Wow!” I thought “who could have written this better?” and we planned a day on the shore, a Saturday.

But it didn’t take me too long to realize she was just being kind and that we were now in different worlds, her graduated one and mine still with some years to go in that cocooned world that college can be.

Then I stepped on a piece of broken glass in the sand and we left the beach and went back to her new adult place and with me with a sock and sneaker full of blood and she told me, as I finally got my foot in order and washed my shoe, that she and I couldn’t be a thing, but not because we were of different worlds now but that I was  …. I didn’t mention this earlier but it was the 80’s, I was Bender before Bender in the Breakfast Club, combat boots and bandanna’s wrapped around the ankles, more earrings almost that could be counted on two hands and this, and this was the thing, that I couldn’t have been a guy she could bring home to Mom and Dad, plus she had a kinda boyfriend, one I almost imagined years later might be the one who got into banking and hedge funding and wore a suit and made mom’s swoon and dad’s proud of possible new perfect son in laws, minus the affairs, in perfect suits … she told me I just didn’t look quite right.

Now I know, now, she was absolutely right, I was just a kid, and though we had acted in plays together with me imagining some play’s romance playing out into the real world, that could never have happened, I still harbored a bit of hope.

But sleeping on her couch, in her new job place and she being on her way, maybe even heading to the city for callbacks I just got up and left, but too late for the train I was sure.

I didn’t wake her, I didn’t blow a dramatic kiss, I didn’t start writing stories or bad poems to leave her in notes of unrequited love on a kitchen counter, I just got up and left … and started walking.

Back then, and I’m sure some, if not most of you can relate, when we first got our own driver’s licenses the world suddenly got smaller, some towns suddenly became “right next door” to each other as we drove around non-stop.

When walking though … and not thinking … not so much.

Katonah became again the place in a far away world we only visited very rarely, on drives that took sooooo long to get to dentists with Mom driving or to those shots I used to have to get in Yorktown heights  when I was younger for my allergies (the ones that eventually did the trick, RFK Jr and Aaron Rodgers notwithstanding) and before I knew it I was walking with my thumb stretched and at whatever the hell time it was.

And I was found.

I sat on the end and edge of my bed, almost not sitting on it at all and cried, about broken hearts, and going back to school seemingly alone and also about how I wasn’t dead behind two idiots wheel but with the door cracked open just enough for drama to seep through.  

Mom? They happened to be not just two idiots just tooling around, and drunk, man that car stunk, but two idiots that just happened to see my thumb and just happened to be going in the same direction I was going and also right by the house in a far away place called Mahopac on their drunken way.

If there are actually guardian angels …

She sat with me and gave a hug or two but also reminded me, in no uncertain terms, that I was just bloody lucky to have come across a couple of guys, who in their drunken dumb, knew this kid with a limp from a newly bleeding foot needed to get home, and on their way no less which made it easy, but that I would also have so much more to come in my new year, even though I couldn’t see it right now, new friends to make and even get to the point where maybe I was the guy the freshmen would look up to, or maybe get a crush on. There were also some Bloody Hell s and Hell’s Bells liberally tossed in there as well and another hug, this one for me still being alive.

… she would save me on other occasions too, like that time she pulled me back from what I will always think was a mental break when I asked John to sit on me on the side of the Pennsylvania Turnpike before I stepped into the roadway when all that I had has was lost, my job, my marriage, my prospects and I was driving a nowhere road and some State Cop gave me some grace and sympathy and put my cats in the back of his car as Mom gathered the forces of her friends, The Carrs in this case, to drive her halfway across Pennsylvania so she could meet me and drive my car back, a broken me and a couple of cats.

/////

But she was also the very first phone call I made to share my victories, my glories when someone had finally noticed, dad passed away too soon to really share them with him as well though I did get a chance, once, to play for him some of my aircheck tapes though he really didn’t know what that meant, dad wasn’t a guy to listen to the radio, other than maybe for a weather report or two.

/////

There is this one picture of my Mom with her girlfriends back when she was a teen. Sitting on a rock wall, maybe just outside of her home, possibly even skipping school, outside her home of moms and dads and brothers, looking all cool with the girls and smoking cigarettes and being the what all. I’d like to think that maybe she recognized herself in me.

/////

“Hey Ma, you wanna watch a movie tonight? No, no murder mystery” I called from Barnes and Noble, my gig then, “I’m getting out a little early and I’ve already hit Blockbuster for “The Adventures of Priscilla Queen of the Desert”

This was when I was on her couch in her little one bedroom place just up the way from Aunt Lib and before we both knew that I needed to get out of there before she killed me and left me in a ditch underneath the power lines and before we realized that family was all we had and she was able to usher me off to new begins.

But that scene, of ping pong balls shot from a place you couldn’t possibly imagine ping pong balls to be shot from? She just laughed, that warm laugh, and in this case, an out loud guffaw and we re-wound and re-wound playing it over and over again.

/////

My Mom loved this family. It started as only her stand in for what she had left behind but after meeting my dad and his warts and all gang and having a me and then a Beck and Nick in other ways she surely thought to herself, I have done alright.

I found a guy who adored me, I and he cared for numerous foster kids from broken homes under our roof, I shepherded disadvantaged kids through school she might have said, I popped out a kid who didn’t disappoint me and called me a lot, I added some even better ones and I found friends who I could really call friends and confidants.

Something about rich lives Ma.  

/////

The first album I ever bought was “The Beatles Live at the Hollywood Bowl”, well, the second, the first was the Star Wars Soundtrack until I discovered that “soundtrack” was just the music, not some recording of the actual flick just minus the pictures, which was pretty disappointing, though I did spend way too much of my paperboy money on the Star Wars stickers I could adorn it with.

But she came from a distant land, a land of wonder of all my Mary Stewart King Arthur books and I bought the album and became a lifelong Beatles fan because of her, and plus, England was so small, she must have been on a first name basis with them right? I mean, how could she not? That’s what I told all of my friends anyway.

/////

Phone rings

“How ya doin’ Ma?”

“I’m Ok Stephen”

“Tell Dad I said Hi back”

/////

Miss ya Ma so much, and our phone calls.

New Year’s Eve, Stinky Joe and “For the Love of Benji”

by Stephen J Frankenberry2 Comments on New Year’s Eve, Stinky Joe and “For the Love of Benji”

(a silly sort of stream ramble)

Now I don’t know about you all but I didn’t really have anything in mind for this New Year’s Eve, very much unlike New Year’s Eve’s from recent years past where I, at best, have ended up panhandling on a street corner in the morning or busking with no discernable talent or instruments for enough money for a train ticket back upstate and maybe a new pair of pants after a night I can barely remember to, at worst, panhandling on a street corner in the morning or busking with no discernable talent or instruments for enough money after a night I can barely remember for a train ticket back upstate and maybe even a USED pair of pants AND shoes (used or not).

But no, however much I will miss those New Year’s Eve’s that had turned into an annual tradition and time spent with old acquaintances, including Stinky Joe (rest in peace old friend) and the jangly collar of his long dead dog, Stanky John (though I never had the pleasure) and also proved to be a pretty good side hustle, with or without any discernable talent, though the panhandling helped, I decided to go in a totally new direction this year.

Now get this, and I know you’re gonna say “Whoa!! Dude, bring it down a notch there bucko!!!”, but I thought to time my laundry to have the ding of the dryer hit just a few minutes before midnight and then put on clean, fresh, warm jammies for the ball drop (yes I said jammies … don’t judge, it’s a new year … turn corners in your better than thou judgements will ya? plus they were only 7 bucks at Ocean State Job Lot and I LOOOOVE sportin’ a great buy) while sitting in a bed made with clean, fresh and warm sheets and watch another movie eventually with maybe even a cat on a lap, still.

My lord, the wild, crazy of old men.

Though I will surely miss the thought of panhandling on a street corner in the morning or busking with no discernable talent or instruments for enough money for a train ticket back upstate after a night I can barely remember and maybe a new pair of pants as I melt away into the comfort of new, clean, warm jammies and sheets I will at least be able to check a movie or two off of my list, and Jesus, we all could do with checking some off huh?

So many friends recommend so many things where you reply “Yeah, that one is on my list” to at least make them feel like you still share some movie interests and that they have done a good job with their latest recommendation added now to your list until that list is longer than your arm and even a leg combined or maybe even both of both until you just trip and crumble under the weight.

This is just that time.

And yah know, maybe I’ll even watch something in memory of Stinky Joe and Stanky John’s jangly collar. They were always going on about “For the Love of Benji” one that has always been on my list since the mid 70’s.

I told you this shit was long.

Rest in Peace Stinky Joe.

Stinky Joe “You already said that … now have you watched “For the Love of Benji” yet?

Ok, you’re weirding me out now Joe.

Maybe This Christmas (poem)

by Stephen J Frankenberry12 Comments on Maybe This Christmas (poem)

A prompt from Dora at dVerse Poets to write a poem, with a holiday tint, using “Despite” and “Still” and so many well worked and wondrous examples of Dora’s inspiration and intent.

//////////////////////////////////////////

Maybe this Christmas

Maybe this Christmas will find

what was left behind

(in one small sock lost back under tree in a crack in the floor

found

maybe by new)

the glee of lights I knew could be seen

above all

on high

as there were none in the whole wide world of our street

that could meet

expectations or faces of Christmas like we

.

Maybe

just maybe

newer new will find what was left behind

(remodel make old undone amid dust and splinters and curses

of hammered thumbs

that one

now graying sock

fallen through crack)

a gift from Mom’s and Dad’s of memories back

that held promise

of lights they knew could be seen

in child’s dreams

at Christmas

above all

despite

whole wide world’s changed street

through thick dark clouds

now

expectations tougher reach

.

Maybe

season’s redemptive thought

maybe

newest new will find that once lost behind

(after tear down that faded sock of gifted wonder in rubble

of rebuild

could

maybe

be found

still

full of sparkling memories dusted, cleaned, fancy new)

finally

with chocolates and giggles and little games with hue

of wonder

after so many years

to maybe

just maybe

gift to the latest new

of expectations

anew

seen above all others in this whole wide world’s now angry street

maybe

just maybe this Christmas

Solace in the Attic and the Absence of Heroes and Good Men

by Stephen J Frankenberry4 Comments on Solace in the Attic and the Absence of Heroes and Good Men

I haven’t written or posted anything yet about a Tuesday, in a November, in a year of our lord whatever future noted forsaken that will be a line of demarcation for new generations of where a majority in this once grand land, one that had always prided itself on its exceptionalism suddenly, and en masse, just wholly lost the concept of exceptional and also their moral compass, all at once, almost as if these ideals had never really existed in the first place. Practically mocking the mere thought/thoughts.

I just went to the comfort of my Attic instead, to try and grab some solace, with Flash Fictions that I so love and poetry and funny stories and songs sung to maybe listen to again, though they don’t, obviously, have the same import right now (new ones to come though I promise) and I noted that the only traffic in the Attic I have had in the last few days was of just a couple of glances but a one someone, who, out of the blue, came to be a one someone who liked a post I wrote back in July.

An unintended thing really, that post (those are often the best) just a response to a prompt at dVerse poets to write a poem of loss. That made me think of a poem I had written for my father at his passing too many years ago but, and the unintended part, as just posting the poem as was, was not going to be enough. It needed to be more, it needed more reason to exist other than just a poem about loss. It ended up being about heroes and a good man.

I know, but where are you going with this, Frankenberry, in your Attic solace?

Well, it occurred to me, after all this recent damage had settled like darkened dust around broken things, in final results exalted by all the misinformationists and their bots, domestic and abroad, of all the cowards who kowtowed and bent an early knee in hope of favor (looking at you Jeff Bezos you spineless prick) and all those who now glory in victory with, they wish, a vindictive bend.

So, I sit in my Attic solace and thank that one person who took a look back to a post about a good man and a one, a lifelong conservative, who would have been embarrassed by this circus show, who would have maybe even been angered by what he saw and he was a peaceful, understanding man, until he wasn’t and this current would surely make him an “until he wasn’t” and you never wanted to go there, not from possible violence, as so often promised these days, but you just didn’t want to go there.

Disappointment with a look and a shoulder shrug and a turn away can be way more powerful than anything that might involve a hammer.

Know this in your revelry, you actual, real less than humans, the ones you have warned us of and demonize, that you have no “good men” to look to, none, you all are just simple die-cast facilitators of the demise of democracy, you are tools, you have voted for a man who views our democracy and the constitution as a mere hinderance to his needs, and he has needs, even you can admit that you see this dangerous narcissism, or, sadly, maybe you can’t, but you voted for a dark future anyway, and accepted being nothing more than cogs and faceless oath keepers to a new King who only cares of you as much as much as he can use you.

It will come for you, this new “freedom” this new America. If a Viktor Orban, a devil walking tall in his hubris, who the actual devil himself is envious of and raises a “I’m hands off on this guy” while sidestepping around so as not to cause a ruckus chimes in with a thumbs up you know you have reached the bottom of the well. If you applaud this “victory” know that you have tread onto new unwanted ground, a one where no “good” men actually exist and you will find only …

Well, whatever, I will find solace in the Attic and the story of an actual good man, one hard found and one that isn’t you.

Oh, and Nick Fuentes? Dante is fashioning an additional circle just for you. Special.

Just posting then something from a few months ago.

/////////////////////////////////////////

(originally posted July 31, 2024)

A new prompt at dVerse Poets comes from Punam of paeansunpluggedblog and concerns grief and writing of it, if you are able to do so and share such.

It made me think of a post I wrote back in June of 2020, during the pandemic, a post about heroes and about my Father, something I wrote back then surely to ease my fear and apprehensions of the time and a post that included a poem at the end, a cherished one, one that I had written for him, 24 years prior, at his passing.

So I thought to revisit it then (with a couple or a few or a couple plus a few plus a bit more new eye revisions) and to re-post.

Thanks P for having me return to this.

It was really nice to catch up with Dad again.

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When I was a kid my heroes were sports stars, specifically baseball and a couple of Pittsburgh Pirates, Richie Zisk and John Candelaria. That’s all I thought “heroes” were, not knowing yet that there was way more to the definition of the word than just that one thing and, not knowing this yet, I never thought to attribute the word to my father. He was just Dad, the guy who was always there, the one who I would check out the window for far too often on a daily evening basis looking to see if his whatever old heap of a car (“it’s only held together by the dirt Stephen” he would laugh) had pulled in yet after work, the one person I always wanted to impress like Richie Zisk and John Candelaria impressed me but, more importantly, the one I never wanted to disappoint.

No, these heroes with gloves and bats and balls were heroes simply because I aspired to their talents and the glory that can come with it but I never wanted to BE them, be like them, as I didn’t know them. But, and I didn’t even really know it then, I was slowly realizing I wanted to be like my Dad, because I DID know him, and he was good, simply just good, the epitome of such (if I’ve taken nothing else from my Dad all these years later it’s the “good” I hope I’ve lived up to). Even in this “I really didn’t know yet” stage I could see how much people liked, no, loved “Hi, I’m Joe Frankenberry from New York” as he would cornily introduce himself years later, one by one by one, to my new friends at college, and not embarrassingly so, as some may have felt of their Dads in such a situation, but endearingly, me being so proud to “show him off”, he so looking forward to the trips back in late Augusts for the newest school year.

I didn’t know then that I wanted to have the same open and giving heart as he, that I wanted to be as accepting of anyone, of any persons no matter their sex, creed, color, religion or any other such nonsense we need to label, to somehow delineate, like that’s necessary. That I wanted to have the same openness to any who would cross paths with his or then mine. That I would take to heart his most steadfast personal mantra of “always try to walk, just a few steps, in someone else’s shoes Stephen”. That I wanted to do nothing more than to sit and listen to stories at family get togethers with the older ones, my dad usually leading the story way, instead of dallying uselessly with my cousins. That I wanted to maybe tell my own stories. That I wanted my future person to be as close to his as I could possibly get.

I didn’t know then that I would veer off a bit eventually and that we would have our differences, which would be all about me becoming my own person I guess, but that it would have a core, a core of Dad’s “good”. I didn’t know then how much that core would mean to me down the road.

This veering didn’t cause a rift though, because that core wouldn’t allow it, but Dad and I did have some difficulty with the times in those days, MY times, my opinions being newly and constantly formed, and refined and confirmed, especially on religion and politics. They were alien to him but he always let them in, lent an open ear. I did, though, try to shield his good, as it was often a challenge for him with my veering but I still kept that core, eventually realizing that his stresses were a result of a changing world that was starting to get polarized and move past him. Dad didn’t like, no, more just plain didn’t understand that we all just couldn’t get along, even with our differences, that there couldn’t somehow be compromise.

I would also tend to call Mom first in times of personal difficulty then, personal difficulties that I thought might be too much for Dad (certainly not giving him enough credit as Dad had definitely seen his share of difficult times, way more difficult than anything I could ever imagine and had been through quite a lot) and there were plenty of Steve issues to call Mom about believe me (Oh, the drama of me) Mom another person I wanted to be but for different reasons. And one I also hope I have done justice to.

As I grew older and wisdom started to slowly grace me I realized that “hero” is a many faceted word, has many iterations, that it has a huge range, from the ones who respond in the moment to aid in sometimes unexpected ways and maybe dire circumstance and sometimes even at their own cost, to the selfless who willingly take on jobs that put their own lives at risk down to the ones who simply provide safe harbor for another’s storm to the dedicated teacher who persevered day after day for a lifetime to try and reach us, us arrogant idiots who thought we knew it all already and who I’m sure offered nothing but frustration too often. Hopefully I gave them a glimmer on occasion when I did respond to their teachings.

To the ones who stood up, were counted to the now new obvious heroes trying their damndest to keep us safe as best they can.

To the ones waited for impatiently whose old cars were only held together by the dirt.

When “Joe Frankenberry from New York” passed away going on 25 years ago now it was right at a time of huge personal upheaval, my short lived marriage coming to an end because of sudden discovered and then desired lifestyle differences, suddenly for me but known deep down to my too soon to be ex wife but a different lifestyle she needed to explore. What I didn’t know back then though was that the lessons learned from Dad, the wanting to be like him and the person he was, to just simply be good, to see all as they are with no preconceptions, no judgements, was the only thing that would get me through all of the anger I could have possibly and easily felt or even unjustly directed. It was a something, a way, that I have clutched, clutched hard to my chest for a Dad taught lifetime now.

Yeah, a few steps in her shoes Dad … I took them.

I just didn’t understand then what hero really meant.

This was what I wrote for him back then …

Been too long a time Dad.

.

The Story Of A Good Man

He watches Gunga Din

And I watch him

Seeing myself in the tears

That fall

To the armchair

To the beat of Gunga Din’s drum

.

I’ve written many lines

About a good man

Not conquered

By evils that say Hi in the street

Every day

Mocking his ignore and pass

.

I’ve written many lines

About a good man

Who asked no questions

To explain pain

Only answers a child knows

But is forced to forget

.

I’ve written lines

Of hate

Thrashing at God

Unfairness palpable

On a piece of paper

I can maybe wave on the courthouse steps

.

But I’ve never written lines

About a good man and faith

Unfailing

Flesh only a hindrance

The higher

Reached without even having to try

.

I’ve never written lines

About a good man’s search

For family

The roots of the tree

Embedded in soil,

Rich

.

About a good man’s search

For history

And reasons

.

I’ve never really written lines

About my Father

Just myself

.

A back to make Atlas envy

An Irish song sung

A family cherished

A God that is good

A heart that was a soul

A day that ended with dinner and talk

.

Gunga Din’s drum beats

Bagpipes implore

Civil War battles rage

Happy girls dance a jig

Irish ballads cry

As do I

At the death of a good man

//////////////////////////////////////////

Nothing you ever do, you facilitators, you lackeys, you blind disciples will rate this man, a real one not some orange demi-god, you are too small and I don’t envy you that.