The Land

The land was distant

and unknown.

Fathers had spoken of it often,

but back then we simply

couldnt have known

that

there was no becoming then.

We were not ripe,

We we were not grown.

Years past

we laboured

and it remained

a sepia coloured

picture slightly stained.

A place far away

and vast;

A place away,

A place unknown,

A place of peace,

And just a dream,

a single digit out of grasp.

A place trees,

of dancing leaves,

of stone,

of flowing streams;

A place of sunlight

set in midday dreams,

that quiet white blankets

covered on distant winter eves.

As generations grew

to men and women,

as did the strifes and labours too,

with loss and fear,

And costly prices paid

the children died,

the children grew.

Yet with many long and distant

journeys,

coursing back and forth,

sometimes with the many,

sometimes one alone,

The father’s dream in time

became,

the children’s

father’s home.

Hemingway’s Conversation

 

Hemingway contemplates
light,
In a new found darkness.
He wonders when it will
End,
And asks Cohen:
“Do you know?”
“How was it when you left?”
Cohen answers
No – it was so, so,
It hadn’t been that dark
Since 1939,
But the light
Eventually will come.
And we may see ourselves again perhaps In ways,
we haven’t seen,
Since very long ago.

YOU whose heart was
Enormous, cracked, and sympathetically flawed-
radiating light
from a blazing great fire;
whose eyes
Puffed with weariness
In a body too tired,
and too frail to go on,
With eyes clear and luminous
And shining with wonder
as they often are
in the aged and wise.
The time arises that souls
need to move on,
Like a bird on a wire;
And you knew it was coming,
-this journey-
With a Hineni in song