Once, There Were Heroes
Back in the early '90's, an anthology of poetry was published. That fact, in itself, is nothing new, exciting or of any consequence. Writers write and publish their works every year and editors compile and publish anthologies every year.
What made this anthology different was the fact that it was a book edited by men, for men, and about men.
In this Anthology, the so called "Men's Movement" and all of its secular and sacred iterations had been distilled into a fine work for reflection and study. I'm not one to join in with the fellers who get naked and paint themselves with sweat and mud and dance in the desert at full moon. Hell, I did that before it was considered politically correct and theraputic. I did it for fun, howling at the moon, stoned and wicked smiles, back in the dark ages.
In this Anthology, the so called "Men's Movement" and all of its secular and sacred iterations had been distilled into a fine work for reflection and study. I'm not one to join in with the fellers who get naked and paint themselves with sweat and mud and dance in the desert at full moon. Hell, I did that before it was considered politically correct and theraputic. I did it for fun, howling at the moon, stoned and wicked smiles, back in the dark ages.What the anthology did for me was to pull a switch, light a fire, instill a need to create, to write. And that is what I have been doing ever since. Since I recently joined the ranks of the unemployed...or underemployed, I have been going through long neglected stacks of stuff.
(*Sidebar: If you feel called to do so, you can donate to the unemployment fund using the Pay-Pal button on the right side.)
In one particular stack, I came across poetry written back in the late 80's. One in particular I want to share. Its about one of my heros, Dad Anthony.
~~~~~*~~~~~
My Father's Hands
Soft April sunrise sifts light
Pastel colors woven warm through
Pale Palo Verde shadows and Mesquite fans.
The silent Sonoran desert cradles morning.
Worn white wicker creaks on the summer porch.
We sit, coffee cups steaming in our hands.
80 years turned and tolled in their memory
Pulled deep from long years recalled.
His still strong hands, long fingered,
Liver mottled, baked brown
Parchment in the Arizona heat.
How long will they linger?
These hands that held me close,
Drew strong man circles
‘Round my broken childhood.
How long before the phantom
Pull of gravity draws him down
And the Father season folds its weary hands.
And mine, uncertain still, gently hold
Pastel colors woven warm through
Pale Palo Verde shadows and Mesquite fans.
The silent Sonoran desert cradles morning.
Worn white wicker creaks on the summer porch.
We sit, coffee cups steaming in our hands.
80 years turned and tolled in their memory
Pulled deep from long years recalled.
His still strong hands, long fingered,
Liver mottled, baked brown
Parchment in the Arizona heat.
How long will they linger?
These hands that held me close,
Drew strong man circles
‘Round my broken childhood.
How long before the phantom
Pull of gravity draws him down
And the Father season folds its weary hands.
And mine, uncertain still, gently hold
This faded April memory.
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