I see a man, a holy man, a one-stuck herculite hungry man,
a yearning man, a wordless man,
a man who never learned the way, a man with oh so much to say,
without a mouth to say it with.
I see a man so full of love it almost overrides his fear,
it does, in fact,
but not enough to get him there.
I see a man with such a wish it goes beyond the mortal star
to fix upon the infinite sphere
and tear again that ancient scar so deep inside him no one’s where.
The wish of fury ultra meek
so tender that it cannot speak of anything that lurks within
or remotely resembles sin.
I see a man so pure of heart that almost it must come apart
whenever doubt, the hidden seed,
becomes the word,
much less the deed,
and grows into a heartbrake along the avenue.
A man I see much less like me than I like him,
a man of dim bewilderings and brilliant sense,
a man whose borders are a fence of steel
to sense surround the feeling firmament within,
a fence of sense and practicality to fend the pain of personality
and ward invaders from the safe parameters within.
I see a man whose being cries for love whose code forbids it,
who says stick it
and intends to leave it stuck.
I see a man who worked and sweated and says what am I
who worked so hard
to just ask why now I am old and feeling cold and lonely?
Why, he says with every doubt, did I always shut me out until
I lost myself out there
and lost the chance to ever share that part of me?
I see a man whom I will ever love, a man whose yearning matches mine:
to reach out and touch and say yes,
to smile and laugh and feel free,
to make mistakes and admit it,
to become the one who sounds the son and finds deep waters.
I see a man who tries with every fiber of his being to become
encased in a rock of old and hating it.
I see a man with inspirational courage.
I see a man of shaken faith.
I see a man of questioning love.
I see my father.
by Tom Howe