Apr 2024
I HAVE NO GIFTS TO BRING
I bring him back
bits of the world
like a child would.
Broken green glass
among the grass
like grass on fire
with green.
A cat that yawns
and every time it yawns
it has the bark
of an invisible dog
sound and sight
synchronised for a laugh.
A swan sitting on
a park bench
as if it were a park bench
for SWANS ONLY.
All these useless
bits of broken world
that my father will never see
I carry them back in words
like a child trying to capture
the sea in a blue bucket
trying not to spill a single thing
that's seen
back to Nass
General Hospital.
Offer them up like treasure
as only the child I was
could.
And then and now
your smile
treating them
as wondrous to behold
"Is the world so?"
"It is so!"
I say
both as man and boy.
The glass grins
shining in the sun
like a little green
fire.
A cat caught
mid yawn
by some ventriloquist
dog in a lonely backyard.
A swan who thinks
it's human.
You smile
at these gifts I bring
such little thing
to offer
to your dying.
*
We used to be at the hospital from morning to night. When others came I would leave so that he wouldn't feel crowded. Outside Nass hospital there is a large pond where many many swans and lots of different ducks hang out! When I came back he would ask me if had been talking to the swans again. And of course I had.
I only inherited his smile and his love of words. The other boys inherited his good looks and musical talent and practical ability.
I could only bring him things in words.
All that was to be seen were the things that made it into the poem...little things of little or no interest. A very buxom jogger jog by in pin skin-tight spandex singing of all things in March....The Little Drummer Boy. She didn't make it into the poem but she did kickstart the idea of the gifts.
I would bring him back whatever I saw. He would always ask and laugh at what I had to report. They were simple things but things he would never see again. These become precious just because of that. He found it difficult to breath an yet all he wished was that he could play his harmonica again and be at home setting the fire. Again simple pleasure but out of his reach.
I bring him back
bits of the world
like a child would.
Broken green glass
among the grass
like grass on fire
with green.
A cat that yawns
and every time it yawns
it has the bark
of an invisible dog
sound and sight
synchronised for a laugh.
A swan sitting on
a park bench
as if it were a park bench
for SWANS ONLY.
All these useless
bits of broken world
that my father will never see
I carry them back in words
like a child trying to capture
the sea in a blue bucket
trying not to spill a single thing
that's seen
back to Nass
General Hospital.
Offer them up like treasure
as only the child I was
could.
And then and now
your smile
treating them
as wondrous to behold
"Is the world so?"
"It is so!"
I say
both as man and boy.
The glass grins
shining in the sun
like a little green
fire.
A cat caught
mid yawn
by some ventriloquist
dog in a lonely backyard.
A swan who thinks
it's human.
You smile
at these gifts I bring
such little thing
to offer
to your dying.
*
We used to be at the hospital from morning to night. When others came I would leave so that he wouldn't feel crowded. Outside Nass hospital there is a large pond where many many swans and lots of different ducks hang out! When I came back he would ask me if had been talking to the swans again. And of course I had.
I only inherited his smile and his love of words. The other boys inherited his good looks and musical talent and practical ability.
I could only bring him things in words.
All that was to be seen were the things that made it into the poem...little things of little or no interest. A very buxom jogger jog by in pin skin-tight spandex singing of all things in March....The Little Drummer Boy. She didn't make it into the poem but she did kickstart the idea of the gifts.
I would bring him back whatever I saw. He would always ask and laugh at what I had to report. They were simple things but things he would never see again. These become precious just because of that. He found it difficult to breath an yet all he wished was that he could play his harmonica again and be at home setting the fire. Again simple pleasure but out of his reach.
