a simple prayer
his feet cracked, red
and worn
from the long and lonely walk
into this life
his mother’s hand
a sister’s touch
may he be warm
may he be safe
may he be held
Fisher Chambers Fink, born March 20, 2022; 9lbs 5 oz.
Welcome grandson…
And on a similar note, from Czeslaw Milosz, Forget:
” a grandson and a great grandson are born…you stand at the threshold mute”
A Joyful Circle – the Final Lineage Poem. And so we come full circle in this series of Lineage Poems. Like medieval astronomers who took the earth to be the center of all things, so does our ego create the illusion that this individual life is the central point of reference in the infinite sweep of time and generations. Past, future, and at the fulcrum, this single life. And I suppose it couldn’t be any other way, however flawed this cosmology of self.
As I write this, I’ve been down for two weeks struggling to recover from pneumonia. It’s honestly been a frightening time. In an earlier post, I mentioned that my only brother died a short time ago, of lung disease as it happens (https://oldbonesnewsnow.com/2022/03/19/sunrise-and-sunset-the-wheel-of-life/.) So losing the ability to breathe triggered both fearful memories and simple animal fear. Just today, it finally feels like my breathing is softening, and the air is beginning to flow.
And also just today, our next grandchild has begun the long, messy, painful, risky and extraordinary process of pushing into this world.
A joyful circle. I wouldn’t have missed a minute of it
And I pray that I will have many, many, more to experience
Little boy, I weep with joy at the prospect of meeting you!
Two closing poems to bring this home, the first from several years ago
old man
in the wild untended fields of my heart
sits an old man. the day is late but warm
and the low-angled light spreads like butter
over the tall grass. his beard is white
gone beyond gray, and his hair, long and thin
shifts with the wind. he wears a multicolored vest
stitched with threads of silver
and his boney white feet
sit bare upon the land
his hands, held still on his long legs, bear the scars
of a lifetime of choices -- he sits beyond judgment
beyond expectation -- he’s been waiting
for a very, very long time
he breathes as I breathe
his blue eyes are clouded now
from having witnessed a life
while in the distance the witches’ voices
rise in round to the beating sound of his heart
he has always known this song
has always known all
of the songs
we are each of us sorcerers
all singers of one single
deathless song
with Sara atop Kilimanjaro, October 2020
And a final word written very recently
only that
they say it’s our habits, habitual tendencies
that are reincarnated, like a wind
blowing through a window left open
in a newly constructed house. and this
makes sense to me – I haven’t suffered enough trauma
in this one life to be as confused as I seem to be
so I must have swept these old wounds
into the womb with me, an intangible blanket
of familiar mistakes to keep this newborn warm
now, as I stare down this narrowing hall
I pray to whatever powers there be
to allow me to direct more precisely
the next go-round
when the last breezes blow
and this basket of bones finally fails
may only one thing pass into the next life--
may I carry forward only
the tender warmth of my fingers
as they touch the cheeks
of those I have loved most in this world
that
and only that
May these words be of benefit to all sentient beings
Sunrise and Sunset – the Wheel of Life. The 9th Lineage Poem. So we near the end of this cycle of Lineage Poems. We began with the roots of ancestors gone long before I was born, but embedded in my every cell; visited and said goodbye to both my father and my mother; welcomed the addition of a new line through marriage; and celebrated the advent of a new generation in the birth of my beloved granddaughter. Now, we turn to the inherent cyclical nature embedded in the fabric of the generations.
Last year I buried my only brother Joseph, and shortly thereafter learned that our son and daughter in law are expecting a second child any day now, a boy this time.
A death and a birth, a brother and a grandson
brother Joe with my father, circa 1942
chance
I haven’t met him yet
just been told he’s in transit
waiting, biding his time
in the warm, purple
amniotic dark. our oldest son
told us that his son is expected
in the spring. I clearly remember
the morning my wife’s water broke
rushing to the hospital, becoming
a father for the first time
I called my older brother
eager to share the news
but he was unimpressed
just last month I spoke
at his funeral, his ashes in a box
at the front of the room
and there it is, one leaving
just as another is beginning
and in between, such drama
and beauty, love and pain
and none of it endures - none of us
endures
I wonder if I’ll still be here
when the son of my son
snaps open his eyes
and screams
at the shock of squeezing
into this hard cold world
I hope so, though I know
in truth there’s no way
to protect him
nonetheless
I’d dearly love the chance
to die trying
A Joyous Day – Gift of a New Life (8th Lineage Poem) Nearly three years ago, this lineage began a new phase with the birth of our granddaughter Sawyer. Honestly, I never expected to care much about grandchildren.
I was wrong!
Born on the cusp of covid, she’s always had a bit of “stranger danger” and, of course, this extended to me – kind of still does. Yet we have our own profoundly goofy relationship founded on funny faces, silly noises and mutual surveillance.
She is brilliant, exceptionally verbal and, of course, beautiful. Her blue eyes are stunning, and her crooked grin is simply beguiling.
(I feel very strongly that it’s not my job to post pictures of her on the internet, but below are two that I feel do preserve her privacy.)
I’ve born witness now to the birth and growth of two sons and a granddaughter, and I still have no idea where these exceptional creatures come from, how their intelligence takes root and blooms.
This is the great mystery and the gift of lineage.
I am forever in love
Sawyer in Sara’s hand, a few hours old
mumuration
her small voice rising
in the dark above the crib
a morning murmuration beginning
spinning, rising, a flock
of freshly hatched words
translucent and damp
where did she come from?
this spontaneous consciousness
this ascending double helix
of intelligence - pulsing, spiraling
wave upon brilliant wave
of innate wisdom, elaborating
her sweet song, a spark
radiating across the endless space
of possibility, coming now
to crack open the darkness like a star
like the first soft light
of this brand new day
Equally astounding is how quickly a child engages, learns to stand, to walk and to step into a tomorrow of her own.
Sawyer and mom Taylor above Ouray Colorado
hers
after a lifetime
of insisting on my own importance
here I stand, in the shadows
watching her
watching her
the clouds roll in
and evening pools in the valley
she takes one step forward
and then another, venturing
to the very edge of the world
this world that is now hers
and hers alone
