For Pa

I never realized how much I’d miss my dad

until the message careened into the phone—

cryptic, like a code from his war,

the one he capitalized and we

always knew what he meant.

It’s hard to read between the lines on the cell phone—

a vowel-free zone of confusion

that drops worry and panic in its passing.

Only the word “stroke” held its ground,

that when applied to a ninety-six year

old man, I was strangely comforted

by his foresight in planning his funeral.

Maybe he knew what we didn’t want to know,

that not even he, bailed together by farmer’s

strength to wear the years as lightly

as he wore me on shoulders

would have to return to the ground.

I pray he takes death like he took

all the other problems he met—

as one more puzzle to solve,

one more chance to flex his imagination,

inventing some useful contraption

the Reaper hadn’t conceived

and offer it as a final gift

for us to wonder at.

Feb. 15, 2013

Feb. 15, 2013

I heard yesterday that my 96 year-old father suffered a mild stroke and heart attack. As for as I can remember, this is the first time he has been taken to the emergency room for anything. This poem was written this morning.

The Flood and the Algorithmic Ark, Part II

This is a continuation of the previous blog.

The second letter of the password.  I am that much closer to being dissolved, that much closer to annihilation that comes with the absorption of more data, more information than I could possibly use. Data about international and local politics, or about wars in distant countries that I can do nothing about. Why do I follow the news when I can make no difference? I write no policy. I am utterly powerless to do anything. I am like a father standing by the hospital bed of a dying daughter, unable to do anything except feel the powerlessness that drains hope. The knees crumple to prayer that God would make a special case from among the millions of dying children in the world and stop natural progression, turning death's hand from this child.

I cry for peace. Kyrie, kyrie eleison. Send peace, O Lord. Peace in our time, please send us. Amen

Death by Hepatitis

Dark title, isn't it? I had a flash of insight that I will die by hepatitis, a liver gone bad. No, not gone bad. Used up. Slowly desicated from the years of rugged misuse, of too many delicious cocktails and wine (red or wine, doesn't make a difference) taken for the sake of health. Antioxidants are a delightful excuse. I should give a warning to Jess about such activies but I doubt if she would listen. When I was one and twenty (so goes the poem) I believed in my own immortality and hold the stories to prove it. At fifty four I still stuggle against mortality but now with an added dimension--time lost. I have begun attempting to create a body of work, or at least I tell myself that. Today I crossed the threshold of 200 pages of the most recent project and the end is still not in sight. That's 2oo handwritten pages, not typed, and it comes out to about 4o,ooo words, more or less. I suppose I should count this as success since I began it on Sept. 8, 2008. I date beginnings and I date ends. The middles can care for themselves. I have wandered from the theme. Accept my apologies. Hepatitis turns the patient yellow or yellowish-green. The color is returned when the liver is more fully functioning. Why I'm offering this up, I don't know except that it's late, my defenses are down, I'm tired, and I wanted to write to someone. Thanks for listening.