Father, Over the Long Years

I have struggled, Father,
since the conclusion of your account,
and most times, when my eyes opened
upon dreadful way stations, skin stretched
tight over a belly rounded by new life,
hope seemed like forgotten lore,
a tale vaguely remembered from early years
spent in the company of eternal dreamers.

but hope is surprisingly resilient,
and has no predetermined finale,
believers will carry it with them
unto planes intangible to mortal flesh
and will be born and reborn upon this
the realm of our existence, returned
to those of us who have lost faith
by wielders of infinite possibility,
fragile vessels conceived of obliged
procreation, of dutiful continuance.

o father, do not doubt, the long years
have returned hope to me, embodied
in progeny much labored for—son who is
now as a sapling, limbs long and bare,
fresh; daughter who is as the essence
of simplicity and delight, what glory—
and misery be damned! take flight and
go you to reaches beyond, I'll suffer you
not for even one sunrise more!

and father, I forgive you the long years,
I forgive your abandonment of me while still
I moved through the haze of youth,
know that you were as to me a mountain,
all that held me together while you
were still alive.

Toward Glory, Burning

light flares and paper burns crisply,
leafy contents send acrid smoke trailing lazily skyward
and contentment swells starved lungs denied their usual fill,
long hours spent in demeaning wait,
in straight shoulder-back seated pose,
book of sonnets upon my lap,
mind screaming for release,
this world of seemingly needful empty hands
stretched out in greedy longing
so that lackluster days might continue on
through to life's end, does not suit me.
I do not belong amongst this lot,
I will not refrain from striving toward glory.

Image: Michele Walters, Fire works, Public Domain Pictures.net