Sunday, November 11, 2007

Remembering the face of my father,

on his 82nd Birthday.

I see yer face a craggy map, so that’s where I'll begin,

but in yer case no soggy pack, of when and where ye'd sinned.

Did ye set yerself a trap, and somehow catch yer evil twin?

As ye heard the heartstrings snap, inside yer corpse of tin,

were there ever years of crap, ye hid behind that grin?

I wear meself yer craggy map, remembering that ye've been.

I don at times yer handed cap, and dress it with a grin,

then twist me neck to hear it crack, the way ye did back then.

I am yer son formed of ye sap, so too me kith and kin.

I haven't got yer head's steel trap, much to me own chagrin.

I loved yer face, that craggy map, of where and what was then

but not a trace could I entrap, so took it on the chin.

It was yerself who set the gap, urged it close therein

an stepped out of the gifting wrap, ye ofttimes called yer skin.

By God's grace ye so unstrapped, an loosed yer cotter pins.

I walked along yer craggy map, to come to who I am.

I waded through the years of crap, I took it on the chin.

I did it with yer cradled cap, and tried me best to grin.

Now I course the one ye lapped, an wonder why so grim

I have at least yer handed cap, the man Jesus within.

obeedude 11/nov/07


In Steven King's Dark Tower Novels "Remembering the face of your father" is the path to your true self. When you screw-up, You have forgotten the face of your father. If you really want to insult someone, or point out that they have strayed from the path, you might say that they have done just that: "Forgotten the face of their father." Last week I screwed-up. My son and I both, will have some pretty ruff days to come as a result. My fault, not his.

11/Nov/07 is what would have been my fathers 82nd birthday. Barb's father passed away on All Hallows Eve. I just finished reading Steven King's "The Wolves of Calla." All of these things led into the writing of this poem.

While it is true that the poem contains elements of my father, his life and influence upon me, and the modified picture that accompanies it is of my father (taken in Ireland), the poem is not really about my father. Its about me screwing-up. Its about him never screwing-up in the ways I tend to screw-up. "the craggy map", the twin thing, the corpse of tin, are all elements of "The Wolves of Calla."

This version incorporates suggestions from the E.O.T.N.Poet's. The longer line length, etc. The change in the last line was of my own accord. It more faithfully reflects Steven Kings language in the series. The switch to modified 'ol English/Stage Irish is a recent thingie that resulted from having to force the "longer line length" into this column width.

When I complicate my already complicated life by my actions, whether it be by my ability to get myself involved in circumstances that are the direct result of my inability to walk away from helping others, or the piling-on that tends to accrue because I am so wrapped up in other's problems that I neglect my own housekeeping, I often take things out on myself internally. Not a good thing to do.

Somehow, with the passing of time, reading and praying, (...lack of sleep because of worrying...) or the writing of a poem, I find that God takes care of things anyway and all the useless beating-up on myself was unnecessary.

I tell myself that next time I will remember that. Invariably I don't. …Good thing God does that for me.