It's come to pass,
towards the last,
the inevitability
predicted,
long ago.
A solitary path,
traveled alone,
in the dark
and unafraid.
I came
to here
purposeful,
and yet
unintentionally
in spirit,
if not
in body
or in mind.
No one else
laid the way,
or paved it,
rough
with stone.
No, that
I did alone,
a piece
at a time,
burning
all the
should haves
and could haves
and might have been's
on the way.
But then,
in truth,
was there ever,
really,
a choice?
Ask the Lion
if he hunts
to eat,
or to ****,
and wait
eternally
for the
answer
that will
never
come.
I'm at peace
with what's lost,
and will never be,
as the time
to wonder
grows shorter
and moves
with speed and grace
to the end.
I give no time
to wishes,
or regrets,
I don't have
the moments
to spare,
not
any
more.
I'll say
the last
good night,
in my sleep
to the dark,
grateful
for the chance
to have played
the game
at all.

I can't sit anymore
wet eyes eventually

I really have to stop
My heart grows and grows

I'm sure this will lead somewhere
Like an open highway... skyway

A hidden garden
A secret knowing place

I couldn't possibly
Find the answer here

Or could I?

Dad,
Can it be that you are gone now,
Five years' comings and goings,
Five solar journeys now, around the sun?

I can still see your shape,
Thin and worn,
Overalls, too big,
Cap pulled down,
Pliers hanging at your side,
Lace-up boots, worn,
And your face, lined,
Eyes still twinkling, though
Weary after a day's work,
Fixing,
Farming,
Fencing,
Feeding.

In my mind, you're
Going off to the barn,
To hay the cows,
Like an old imam
Heading mechanically
To daily prayers,
Moved by routines
Impossible to ignore.

The man and the work,
So embedded in the other...
No more thought of leaving -
Though as a younger man,
You spoke of some day retiring -
There was no way, and no desire,
Farming was your one remaining fire.

So, five years are gone,
And yet, everything still
Standing on the farm
Bears resemblances of you.

The peeling buildings, sagging still,
The gravel paths you tended,
The panels your hands welded,
The barns and sheds you built
Still stand, and bear the evidence
Of Arthur Bouchard's hands.

the grass is greening
and voices begin to rise
i wander further
the distance between the tall oaks
and my bare feet
merely a few steps

the front door
not always left ajar
often thrown off its hinges
anger an anvil of weight
a battering ram

tightened
the moon rises and night falls
withering cries
cardinals fly west
and venus readies herself
for a second showing

an exchange
invaluable its rate
but just the same
someone's coming
or going

they bring smiles
because there are no words
they fight off tears
because they want to remain strong
they write poems
of what a kind person he was
and they leave photos on a table
of him as a younger man
smiling at his wedding
his beloved holding his hand
as they reflect on their once in a lifetime day

I sat and took all this in
this funeral for a man I barely knew
but in the few moments we spent alone
on the porch at his home
just a few days before my daughter
would be married to his son
I found him to be a man
I would like to know better
a man of few words
his kind heart on display
in his quiet, gentle way
I'm sure I will see him soon enough
and we will continue our conversation
and smile
as we talk of our sons and our daughters

On quiet nights the children come,
                                          From distant places in my past,
                                          And quietly their footsteps fall
                                          They’ve run so far and fast.

                                          I hear them as they play and laugh
                                          And peer around the trees,
                                          I turn to see them, but they’re gone,
                                          a soft and gentle breeze.                                    
      
                                          Do they run among the clouds,
                                          or here on dampened ground?
                                          I cannot tell, I cannot see,
                                          They’re nowhere to be found.

                                           I worry that they may be cold,            
                                           Does someone tuck them in?
                                           Soft blankets do they cover with,
                                           to fend off cool night winds?

                                           For now I listen in the dark,
                                           And revel in their play.
                                           And wonder where they’re going to,
                                           When night turns into day.

                                           So now I wait ‘til daylight ends,
                                           The sun to set, the moon to rise,
                                           And hope the children never see,
                                           the tears well in my eyes.

                                           Nights are when they get to play
                                           To be what they should be.
                                           To run, to dance, to jump and sing
                                           all this because of me.

                                          Some day I hope to hold their hands,
                                          and walk with them awhile.
                                          And not just hear them as they play,
                                          but watch and see them smile.

                                          And then I’ll kneel before them both,
                                          And look them in the eye,
                                          And ask them if they can forgive,
                                          it was me that made them die.

The Homecoming

The sun warms the back of her neck,
as she walks along the dusty road,
and sees the path to the river,
overgrown now,
but still clear enough in its track
to show the way.
She pushes the hair away from her face,
grayer now then before,
and she stills her heart, her breath,
                        listening to the wind.
Staring at the break in the trees
where the track once led,
she faintly hears the cries of children,
leaping into cool waters,
laughing at the shock of it
wiping away the dust and sweat
and the heat of summer.
All those boys, her brothers,
and a friend or two,
teasing.. trying to leave her behind,
but in the end a hand grasped hers,
and tag along she did….
her brothers smiling at the fun of it all,
her smiling back,
safe in the knowledge of their love.
All those days and summers,
one year blurring into the next
and they all thought it was forever.
But then the letters came,
all those boys were called and left
and she was truly alone,
this time the game for real,
but she waited…
…alone…
for their return.
But never again did she see those boys of summer,
and walk the path to the river
or feel it’s cool embrace.
She remembered now,
tossing dirt and flowers on their graves,
as one by one they came home,
and this time the hand that grasped her own,
was the lifeless grip of her Father,
all the smile gone from his face,
the light gone from his eyes.
She cried then and cries now,
as she turns and walks back to the farm,
empty now but for the memories inside.
She looks at the sign, “For Sale”,
as she drives away,
ready to fly to the far place she ran,
to forget….
.. she shivers in the sun,
cold now with the arms of the dead
embracing her.
She cries to herself, inside,
as she’s done all these years,
and thinks of the river.
                                              JC 2009