where to begin?

let us acknowledge
the responsibility of our actions,
and the titles and duties,
and the unexpected,
thereof.

I was a son, till this year,
still, of sorts, but no longer,
traded it in for
orphan.

are you still a child,
when you have no parents?
are you still a parent,
when a child lost?

I am a father, and grandfather.
this definition of me,
extant, future seeded,
perhaps permanent,
perhaps not.

the product of
actions more than
thirty years ago,
and events yet-to-be thirty years
hence.

titles claimed and granted,
partial, not finite,
not definitive, nor infinite.
partial, but part and parcel,
these titles, of you,
yet
they are not the totality, of you,
but very much part of you,
for you possess precious,
The Imprint - The Gift.

the child lost,
the parent found,
the newest coming,
the oldest gone,
all imprinted on your hands,
just look at them!

there are lines on your palms
you do not know the meaning of,
you do not yet know the ending,
they are in your cells,
as you are and were in theirs.

The Imprint
is The Gift
that is
non returnable,
non refundable,
nor is it
diminished by
any stone marker, measurement
of a day, an uncertain,
certain moment.

Look in the mirror.
see them in you,
as they saw themselves in your
reflection.

ah, reflect.
acknowledge that the
absence is pain,
but look at those hands,
that face, your face,
see the
The Imprint - The Gift
permit yourself an easement,
for it the season of
recollection.

ah, re-collect, recollect.
let the story.
continue, by the retelling.
find that palm line,
find that psalm song,
where the babe lost,
the mother lost
is the babe reborn,
in new faces, forever contained in
The Imprint.

we all ken loss,
we all keen know anguish,
different kinds for different folks.
do we not all have blood?
but are there different types,
and yet,
all still blood related.

prepare yourself
for more sad to come,
and some to never,
woebegone.

but do not forget,
nay, you cannot,
for seared it is,
this imprint,
a two sided copy
of a single document,
you on them,
them on you.
~
an eyelash falls
upon the poem.

a decorative reminder,
a stop sign,
a decorative remainder,
that it is time,
to recall,
to be unafraid.
now, now, right now,
is the time to remember,
that very eyelash,
the cells that are
therein,
the eyes that it has protected,
saw, know, well recall, gave,
gave part of you

and smile,
yes, smile,
for in them,
in the lines around your eyes,
the crisscrossed cell map upon thy hands
is the
The Imprint,
The Gift.

where to end?

This imprint upon your body exterior,
part mark, part stain,
part badge, part medal,
part cain,
part ribbon black pinned.

it is twinned,
for the match, the mate,
of this gift I printed,
is still in your living cells,
and thus knowing
the imprint is yours forever,
they are not lost,
you are not lost,
for Their Imprint
is a gift that
is
never ending
shall eternal be a salve this
happy, sad, melancholy,
holy
morn, day, season.

She was a mischievous child.
Young, beautiful, playful, curious.
And at the mere age of six,
She had a secret.

Her eyes were two twinkling, shooting stars.
Stars that she had mischievously reached up and snatched from the sky one night with a butterfly net
When no one was looking.
She kept them safe, tucked away in secretive sockets so no one would know what she'd done.
They were her secret to keep.

The world spun on, and she aged and aged.
Her life went on.
She married, she worked, she had children of her own,
And not a single soul did she tell her secret of stolen light to.

Finally,
It was her last day on this planet.
She lay in her bed, covered in crocheted blankets, adorned in wrinkles
With her six year old granddaughter sitting at her bedside.

She felt herself starting to die.
She mustered up all the strength she possessed to sit up one last time.
She leaned over towards her granddaughter.
She put a bony, gentle finger to her pursed lips, and winking at the darling youth.

And then,
Mischievously, with a knowing smile,
She reached up and plucked the two twinkling, shooting stars from her eye sockets.
She extended a frail hand, palms filled by two orbs of pure shimmery light
And with a tender, placid touch
Set the stars into the sockets of her granddaughter
For the girl keep for her lifetime
Just as she had.

She slowly, calmly, laid back down.
She winked again at the youthful girl, who, in turn, put her finger up to her pursed lips.
Then, leaving her long-protected secret in the hands of  her darling kin with new sparkling eyes,
The aged mademoiselle gently shut her eyelids over dark, empty sockets
For the very last time.

{alaska}

t'is a seasonal custom of us,
(you did notice that us
is the centerpiece of c-us-tom?)
that in December, not November
when turkey precedes...

I take my slip of a gal
for a big bowl of pasta
and white truffles from France.

the eyetalian waiter knows
he made the sale when her eyes,
crinkle wrinkle when I ask,
upon which pasta
does the ristorante serve the
white truffles from France?

fettuccine, naturalmente!

in ritual grandiose,
the mushroom grated before our eyes,
shavings and specks scattered and disbursed,
part one of the us in c-us-tom done.

me, I grew up lower middle cheap,
Ronzoni rigatoni and Heinz Ketchup,
not just good enough, but a treat,
and I did not from truffle oil eat
nor speak.

two thirds of the way,
part two, I say, hey!
you know you don't have to eat the whole thing.

with eyes adoring,
she fesses up her tiny tummy was full
about half way through.

but she knows
me, I grew up lower middle cheap,
hate to waste the money,
that comes so hard.

part two is the part of the c-us-tom
she forgets about, but the part that
she really loves me for,
so who cares how much truffles cost,
as far her eyes are concerned,
they crinkle wrinkle at the taste,
of my remembering part two.

Passionate
breaths in time
coursing blood
of different kinds

Desire
to please him
body and soul
open his eyes

Joined
in beauty
****, draped
in truth

She could not hide
such a fire
escaping her flesh
slowly burning inside

Praying
for someone
to feel
love that smolders longer than lust.