~ by Charles A. Coulombe
In midst of all, have I learned at last,
present is embedded in the past.
Sages say that the tree is bent
as the seedling is, by nature, sent.
Hunting, riding, friends I have had
race cross my memory with visage glad.
The evil I have had to do,
what was good with what was true.
Conspire to arrange my life
in pattern of symbolic strife;
against its parts, to fight, to strain
between my spirit and my brain.
My dead relations rise to warn
of betrayal; the coming storm.
They rise within my fevered head,
so perhaps I’ll thank the dead
Or curse them for the living fire
which charts both duty and desire,
but does not let man live as men.
The wanderings in swamp and glen.
Verbal lashings of dear friends,
who feed good, yet honest ends,
try to share my private Hell;
private Paradise as well.
Who try to soothe my riotous heart,
in internal battles, take my part.
But these fierce skirmishes inside
emerge from an unknown high-tide
That crashes hard against the rocks
my father built to bind the shocks
that buffet one who crawls on Earth,
armed but with anger, and with mirth.
If, to my friends, I am sometimes cruel,
their love for me is still the jewel
I treasure. But the echoing past
must hold me as my life is cast.
Of Ancient blood, was I once born.
My greatest fear, ancestral scorn.
Though I believe in God above,
in His deep, holy, sacral love,
I must raise my fearful toasts
to all the intervening ghosts,
who cluster at my burning ear
to fuel my never-ending fear.
That my gain is all their loss,
what looks like gold, to me, is dross.
I shall not blame that hidden throng;
who is the singer? Who’s the song?
But if, my friend, you ask of me
why I was cold in such degree,
it was no lack of love for you,
nor for the rest, that friendly few.
The ghost that on my brain intrudes,
is ghastly father of my moods.
I thank Christ’s Father for His Grace
of birthing me within my race.
But of Him also ask the boon
of rising not from out my tomb.
To not before some child arise
and bring down fire from the skies.
For despite our era’s refuse, piled,
there yet are altars undefiled.
From them, heedless of all vice
yet pure, arises Sacrifice.
Crowns and armor still remain
for mortal men, great risking pain,
today might ride upon the Quest
which pleases well our Divine Guest.
May my descendants not require
my ghost to light in them the fire,
which, reflection of Angelic light,
will serve to pierce the darkest night.