Dialogues With the Dead

When he disappeared into death,
A shrunken shadow of himself by then,
Final as I knew death would be,
(Knowing as even the brutes must know
That death is the end of all)
I found I was unprepared for
That sudden muteness, his and mine,
That deafness in the ground, insensitive to speech.
It was not so much that I wanted to hear him
As that I had such things to tell,
Unimportant really in themselves,
But things he would've liked to hear--
Or maybe something to get a rise,
Like a boy stirring up an ant bed
Or pestering a nest of wasps
To see the orneriness gleam in his eye,
Give him a chance to tease or rant.
Long after he fell silent I continued to think of things
To make him laugh;
It was how we kept in touch
Over the wide solitude of our differences
And forgave each other for once being
The wrathful father, the willful son.

My brothers have his hands, fat and powerful
Like bear paws and beaten by work.
When I see them sometimes,
Especially covered with grease or grime,
I expect to look up and find the Old Man
Smiling or frowning back at me,
Resurrected at last, as in my dreams.
And when I see them in overalls
It gives me such a tug on the heartstrings
As sometimes makes me turn my back on
The apparition and suffer visions
Of the Old Man in his travails with the soil,
The motors that broke, the batteries dead,
The tires that blew, his beloved stubborn sons,
And I am bitter because he was not happier,
More prosperous, lucky or everlasting,
And I always want to tell him things--
Unimportant things mostly-- but some things
So mortally important a lifetime
Could not get them all said.

                 Copyright 2000 by H. L. Rucks. All rights reserved.

                                                 Happy Birthday
                                                        

                                           You were still covered

                                           With blood and bits of placenta,

                                           Red-faced and screaming,

                                           A fat, enraged sausage,

                                           The nurse held you up for me to view.

                                           What is it?  I choked. What is it?

                                           What did you want? she teased.

                                           What is it?  What did you want?

                                           A boy. It's a boy, then.

                                           Is it all right? My voice broken.

                                           He's perfectly fine, a fine baby boy.

                                           She cleaned you up and wrapped you,

                                           Like a grocer wrapping meat

                                           In a neat white package,

                                           And laid you in the line-up

                                           Behind the glass

                                           With the other mammals,

                                           My little miracle.

                                           I began to weep,

                                           Still wondering what you were,

                                           What on Earth you could

                                           Possibly be.


                                         Copyright 2000 by H. L. Rucks. All rights reserved.          

                                                 Virgin Mary
                                                        

                             With her benevolent smile stands

                             Grey-robed in the garden through spring and summer

                             By the birdbath watching the birds splash,

                             Left hand extended slightly as if to summon

                             Sparrows to alight on her sleeve, which they do

                             From time to time.

                             In fall the leaves twirl down around her

                             Shedding brown skins on the water

                             Turning wet black, a tinge of sorrow

                             Creeps into her smile at the sacrifice

                             Of the flying leaves and the absence of the sparrows.

                             On windy winter mornings or at dusk

                             The leaves rush madly around her hem,

                             Spilling from her hand, fleeing her grace,

                             Rushing to be caught like small fish

                             In the net of the fence or be carried aloft

                             Into grey skies, nearer to God..

                             Spring is her best time,

                             Bringing out the oval gentleness,

                             Of her tilted face.

                             The sweeping arm bids the trees bud,

                             The roses and honeysuckle to bloom;

                             Purple humming birds whir through the garden.

                             She has forgotten the bitterness of

                             Calvary now-- life is renewed.

                             The birds have come back to baptise themselves

                             And in the fall, the leaves will follow.


                             Copyright 2000 by H. L. Rucks.  All rights reserved.