Linseed Rebel

I am (we all are)
ever
at my (and our)
core,
a REBEL.

A moral inventory's not much use
If not about this acid truth.
- - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - -

It was on my visit to a Mum,
Who ten years this Flag Day
Was
Vis'td upon

With tragedy
On her anniversary,
That I proved again my misery.

Family posed at Dad's funeral

[Also tragic, I've been pond'ring

is this crazy senseless hanging

of pictures, 

crosses and the like,

just anywhere that fancy strikes,

but that's a vice

not dealt with nice...]

To help absorb some of the blow
Of what transpired ten yrs this month,
I said I'd go.

Took the train
[endured their pain :( - -
NEVER taking Amtrak again]
But,
Enjoyed evidence of rain

(or deluge, as it's really been).
Of this winter, I know no twin!

Swollen tributary of Kings River, north of Hanford

My favorite thing I love to do,
Once Memoriams were through
Is dig and plant, and weed and stew
The yard, the compost; 'cause it's true:
Her garden bald spots, overdue
For something new...

(That dear Mom overpaid
For twelve items, could be said;
But better dread

Small-town economic curse!
Preferable, her hundred-spot dearth.)

The plants, the sprinklers
All installed,
Then overspray on
shingles galled.

The choice?
To waterseal the wood,
Or watch new flowers die
But good.

Understood? Nope.
Mum said No.
But Ellie thot: Oh,
It won't show!
So...

Back of one garage shelf
stood
Linseed oil, "for sealing wood!"
GOOD!

Not.

It Did.
Show up, that is.

Just behind
and to the right
Stark contrast, not seen at night
When my secret paint applied:

But in the morning,
Stood, we did.
Observed
Loud stain, dark, unhid.
Shuddered I !
I'm still that kid
Who always used to sneak and bid
Others too, to sneak with me.
"It's OK, they'll never see!"

I'm back home
To age of three,
More than recent odd
Fifty.

- - - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - - -

Meanwhile, Dad?

That day I pondered
How you'd wander, front
To back,
Obsessing this, finessing that.


Compost perfect,
Yard in bloom,
But, for ocean waves
You'd swoon.

Sailing, calling
"Hard Alee!"
In your sleepwalk, laughing,
Dreaming

Of the days the wind was still
And motoring against your will
Seated with Mom at the tiller,
Waiting for the breeze to thrill her.

And the nights in open air
Mom asleep and no one there,
Heading out to someplace fair,
You'd talk and toast the nether'where.

Yet,

Always a care.
Mom was scared?
Your dreams too big
For her to dare.

You loved her more.
Dream off.  Mom spared,

But!

To give away the ship entire?
Unheard of but for prince or squire.
That's why you are, and will be, 'Sire.'
King Juan The Great, though dreams, retired.

WE'RE STILL IN AWE.

But like you, ire'd
That though you had what All required,
Beloved first mate, all but fired,
Fate conspired.

Earthbound.

Mired.

Then June 2001 came:
CHOIRED!

In Memoriam: 

JGM

1922-2001