Alchemical Passes for Father and Son - Turning Thighs to Diamonds

FIRST PASS - The Flying-Away Boy

Or what man is there among you, of whom if his son
shall ask bread, will he reach him a stone? - Matthew 7: 9


No blame shall stain us now, father.

Mars in you still storms the makeshift diamond.
Each base of cardboard weighted with stone
is still our house; a bat, a ball and mitt, hard rules
of the game, were meant to undo my lust for dark
heaven shunning shining girls.

The heavy ball you hit to me is never caught,
a floppy glove always falls from a hesitant hand.
I was reaching for god then - it's not your fault -
a lavender boy early befriended by crows,
already resigned to what was given and what
was to come, a softball between the eyes,
your attempt to guide me toward those
diamond thighs which you often repeated,
'were everywhere waiting.'

I blinked before you, head down, focused on 'Lion's Teeth'**.
I was your hard mystery, and soft, not so fast for I was fat
and could not round the bases quick. I was your inherited
meek, a burden to shake into a sliding man furious for home.

At four I plucked wild strawberries you pointed to,
all authority and accidental grace, revealing much,
still dew wet, sticky to the touch, opening sourness
deserving my frown. You laughed at my dawning smile
for their sweetness slowly yielded, a surprise gift for what
would always unite us, your fear that I would suffer, too,
your fate, untended desire gone to wildness brought
low beneath branches, slow embrace of cradle-gentle boughs
entangling legs and light between the greater shadows,
and shadows shall win the day. In them my yearning
grew yet, remained for that of edges, what is beyond
them, or beneath, for planets arcing and comets rare,
trailing lovers to come but meteors, not the appointed
stars of permanence allowed to some men's hands,
and never to the fallen.

Grounding balls is the only thing to do so I did,
repeatedly. Still, these essential things were caught
for our mostly wasted days of practice,

wild sweetness is a stolen base,

the tongue is an untended garden.

There is a burning that soft hands can know

which shall finally run some headlong for

an inherited circle home at the end,

a latter-day glad son gathering berries from shadows.


**Dandelion

SECOND PASS - Glad Son Gathered

Turning Thighs to Diamonds - Alchemical Passes for Father and Son

Or what man is there among you, of whom if his son
shall ask bread, will he reach him a stone? - Matthew 7: 9


*


No blame shall stain us now, father.

Mars in you still storms the makeshift diamond.

Each base of cardboard weighted with stone is still our house.

A bat, a ball and mitt, hard rules of the game,

the heavy ball you hit to me is never caught.

A floppy glove always falls from a hesitant hand.


**


A lavender boy early
befriended by crows

A softball between
the eyes guides

Diamond thighs
everywhere waiting


***


But before you, head down,
focused on 'Lion's Teeth'**,
I am a hard mystery,

and soft, not so fast for I
am fat and cannot round
the bases quick.

I, your inherited meek,
am a burden to shake
into a sliding man
furious for home.


*****


I pluck wild strawberries,
You, all authority and
accidental grace, reveal too much,
dew wet, still sticky to the touch.

Opening sourness deserves a frown.
Sweetness slowly yields
surprise for what always
unites father/son -

untended desire
gone to wildness
brought low
beneath branches,

slow embrace of
cradle-gentle boughs
entangling legs and
light between the
greater shadows.

And shadows shall win the day.


******


Planets arc
and comets rare
trail lovers.

Meteors are
not appointed
permanent stars
allowed to some
men's hands,

and never to the fallen

caught for mostly
wasted days.


*******


That wild sweetness is a stolen base.

That the tongue is an untended garden.

That there is a burning soft hands can know.


********


Finally runs something headlong

sliding for home inheriting

circles latter-day.


Glad sons (are)

berries from

shadows gathered.



**Dandelion

THIRD PASS - Stealing Home


Wild strawberries,
all authority and
accidental grace,
reveal too much,
dew wet, still sticky
to the touch.

Opening sourness
deserves a frown.
Sweetness slowly
yields surprise for
what always unites -

untended desire
gone to wildness
brought low
beneath branches,

slow embrace of
cradle boughs,

entangled legs
and light.

And shadows shall win the day.


That wild sweetness is a stolen base.

That the tongue is an untended garden.

That there is a burning soft hands can know.