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.

there is not a sexist bone in my body.
not a one.

there is not a bone
in my body entire,
that it's marrow,
but just tinged,
more singed,
nay, more, more,
burnt and burning
with
****** desire.


****** desire is a concerto
of the
five sense organs:
vision, hearing, smell, taste, and touch.

my body performs Halley's Fifth.
my woman listens carefully.

though the hard black line is drawn,

my heart and soul simply ignores it.

all the wise and light in the universe

does no good for me.

a fool is a fool,

even a wise fool

when in love.

and the ***** **** dust

that glistens in our eyes

is so thick

you can never see

through it.

I wish it was that.

but it isn't.

its love.

pure and selfless.

and it craves the darkness

because it wants so much

to balance everything

  into one perfect shade of gray

where all things

are ephemerally constant

and nothing but the motion of love

sustains.