Tom Dent
my father is dead. again.
(for my father-friend tom dent)
1.
what are fathers
but measuring rods
to gauge our growth
walking canes
to aid our stepping
through vast unknowns
cylindrical vessels
who house ancestral links
the planting of which
into fertile soil
turns today’s sorrows
into tomorrow’s joys
fathers are more
than mere giants — they are
the “to be” promise
of germanating seed
the genetic baton
passing on
the history of our needs
our deeds, our soul
expressions
2.
i was thousands of miles away
when tom’s tree fell
the weight of missing him
answers the age old question
does a falling sound
if no one hears
the crash — yes
i know the answer, yes
because
his aftershock’s tremble
reverberates within
the chamber of my skull
at all
the oddest moments
like discovering a special person
within the skin of a child of mine
and discerning at the same time
a lady i used to love
a lady whose love
shaped me
there are periods
when our ability to perceive
presence and potential
is predicated
on having been groomed
by those who have gone before
on having been shown
how to see beyond
what is now
what is known, how
to appreciate the shape
of things to come
all this prescience a product
of learning the living wisdom
of a brusque old man
whose gruffness was so tender
so touching
in its honest intimacy
as he suggested that
there was something beyond
what ever was
and is, and yes, even will be
there is always
something more
something better
to be/come
3.
english words were never meant
to adequately articulate
the anguish in our mouths, our hearts
when we lose the stretching part
of our selves — the stairs we climb
to see further, to descend deeper
as we look out and over
past the limits of horizon line
our vision is improved when we stand
on the shoulders of elders
whose height hoists us higher
than we could ever grow
if we remained flat-footed
married to the ground
the view from these human
balconies enables us to eye
not just near and far
but also back and down
into the wells
of our own personalities
trodding their path
we go beneath the undertow
surveying the superstructure
assaying our foundations
breathing the thin air
of emotional danger
where we are taught to distinguish
the essential differences
between bittersweet and poison
between weariness and resignation
between honesty and cynicism
between maturity and hubris
here, where self-assesment and frankness
are more important than speeches and homilies
if we are fortunate
here we have fathers
who help us
clearly see
depths
as well as distances
4.
in the new orleans
that tom knew
old griots die singing
they do not go silently
into some lonely night
in his new orleans
we do not kill our fathers
to prove that we have arrived
but rather we learn
from them that we can
crack open the kernel
of our own becoming
only by completing
the final maneuver
of life’s ultimate passage rite
the step of accepting the torch
and making of ourselves a light
volunteering
to lift the father spirit
to shoulder the responsibility
of becoming beacon
for those newly born
and those yet to come
in our new orleans we do not stop
at simply burying aged bodies
we also dance forward
from funeral line
and accept the awesome
task of filling father shoes
if i really come from
the house of the rising sun,
if i really believe
in resurrection
if i am really
my father’s son
i must be reborn
be his life
after death
5.
perhaps a moan
is the most profound
sound one can make
when a father is gone
when my first father died
i cried publicly
this time my tears
for tom are silent
words on paper
the two times
a man is most
alone
are when
he loses
a father and when he
loses his own
life — his
beginning his end
6.
in earth ways
my father is dead. again.
but yet again
he lives
the older i become
the more people i contain
another of my fathers
is dead
long live
my father
long live my father
in me
long live
my many fathers
long live
long live
all the fathers
i am
and all the fathers
i will ever be
—kalamu ya salaam