Four
Poems
by Anthony DiMatteo |
Author's Links |
The Allowance The sky tonight is sealed in gray As if a steely hand closed it up In the bottom of a shallow cup, And there is no place to dream or pray. I cannot travel among the stars. My walk is blotted into the dark. Even the trees call for no remark. Yesterday the moon twisted your hair, And your arms were tender and bare. Silence has come out of this night To sink the earth, a wandering bark Heard only once in the pallid air. I cleave to the memory of your light. May night's cold fingers trace no mark. For My Daughter - Some Adult Ramblings And Rantings To Peruse At her leisure on or after her 18th birthday - First of all, I promise never to say On the phone or otherwise "This is not homework. This is life." This is "homejoy" or where the heart is. As for Polonius, beware. Wisdom never finds words brief enough. The door that has a threshold has a staircase Into the clear light of day. We can walk there. But the path of the self casts no shadow, Invisible, beautiful, dangerous sun That glows in the darkness within. It can fly or walk or crawl back into bed, On the prowl for the scent of a dream, Imaginary meadows of real flowers Or the mountains that rise above them. Walking along gay with life tests the Boundaries others have put there. A path will slowly emerge that you have Become rather than walked. It proves unexplainable, Perhaps, and the real night grows inside. Stars stand ahead of us that we begin to count. A call of the wild to account for itself Begins inside of us. Eighteen is no different Than two or forty-six where we stand Beneath the moon and the sun, the clouds, And the perennial flowers of our bodies Felt where the mind sees the light's flow. So the question of age is near irrelevant. Death has always been there anyway. The nights ahead are long and deep, And the days grow faster behind us. Love thyself as thou would the deer Or trees or anything alive and there Will be plenty of love to give. That is my best advice, hopefully, little, But of some use, my daughter, In the nook and cranny of thy select brain That knows your mother, who knows Your father different than you and me Or you and her together in different Pathways. Split the forest softly With soft shoes and big steps. Leave no trace other than what you must. My beautiful daughter, the world's luck Is to have you in it, the way Waterfalls or turtles or the Whatever it is you find in the outside, The beautiful sun of your mind. And may there be no delay in your loves. Call me or Mom or whoever the person We have become, you will know who we are As we become other than your parents, Just people, creatures of the universe. The forest of life is deep. See the path Among its imaginary trees. Duck when you have to even if The branches up close don't seem To be there. Spy on yourself, If you have to, to see what you have Really been doing and feeling. Understand yourself like a foreign Country over which you must establish Sovereignty because its population Is only one. In your small kingdom Of your body, be your own master And guard the solitude of your peace. I will be your early warning scout, If you like, because I've probably Been there, done that. True, no one walks Alike or dreams but there's only one way To hold hands. May there be gentleness there For you. I will guard your right to choose Your goals or your friends or your lover And how to respect yourself as a person No one can ever own or mistreat Through self-allowance or my ignorance. Yes, I've probably said too much again. And been unclear when it's deepest. Fly the wings you have I've shown. They are your own and wonderful. And now I can't wait to give you this poem To be read in the liberty of your freedom. Poem for Thursdays in Late Winter The branches reach into the seams Above their dancing edges full of ice, A silence in the wind, a quiet sky. Bereavement of the year, why do These feelings have no precedent In the tender reaches of your clouds? The Motive of Saint Francis Where in the world were you, In what orb of the mind did you dwell When out among the beasts of the forest, The homeless and the desperate you gave Your will to God and the holiness of things? In the clutter you left behind, all The abandoned furnishings of your followers, The darkened nightstands, the broken vows, The tables, tapestries, the damasked halls Where the tapers would gutter a final time As footfalls faded out into the night, No reason could be found for your exile. The coffers were full and the wardrobes fine. The prompting was the sun, the example Of its halo shining in acceptance, The steady light of its giving its life. The wilderness is no wasteland But the denial of the vacancy of man. The heavy wonder of the rain In teeming falls over the mossed lip, The bird's cry that pierces the morning Coming up the crease where valley rises below In wondrous adornments of the sun, Who would not dance for the lord in such places When dancing is a way the river flows, When the voice of the father is the wind And that of the mother the dews of morn? Ecstasy has its responsibilities. The love of God overcomes the fear, And reserve held back out of pride Brings a misery to the stones no shadow Of the day can cast, for it is of the mind, Its creeping before death that spurs An anxious hoarding. Fear not the flight Of the sparrow or the howling of the wolf. The open wound of the night can be healed In the trusting heart. Give over to the love Of the moon, the face of the lonely beggar, The tripping walk of the vagrant child, The deep knot of the hundred year oak. Live careless in the day, spendthrift Of the soul, that gives itself away. Who would strive for sainthood In the shade when speaking the glories Of the wood and fields can do no better Lest it were starving children one would feed. Inside the mind there is a halo of itself, The miracle is the reality of its light. One does not bask alone in such heaven, One needs to spread love like leaven, Thus the birds and bees, the brooks and gleaves, There is no bounty that does not please The warm blood of hands in tender mercy held. O Francis, you knew what was heaven's gold, For in forests free you did set your goal, To love mankind more than any soul, And your legacy to us is a holy song. |
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