For my Father's Fiftieth

On Turning Fifty years Old
Fifty Black Balloons

“After Cancer, every year feels like a gift.”

Old-Saturn would say, the stalks of grain

they feel the same by fifty

Fifty of these gems peeled open from an envelope of seed.

A Sapphire December-blue disc for sixteen, then

so many always-Onyx coins by twenty or the Garnet a short-while

after one big-bigger yet Diamond only another away.

Spun into gold-tangles clumped in your hair

sure settings for every yearly token’s ornate-element

each gem being carefully-affixed in your tarnishing Crown

A faint lion’s nose slants out beneath them

And what of the decades? Five-squat soldiers

(Shoulder to shoulder) parsons of the Big-Times.

Within the five-strong one of them prowls-lower for threat,

A fury in his Rose-eyes (White-violet). Chased by

an artist: with fat black brush-strokes, shadows of nude-shapes

and Silver-screen (Theft-stolen) eyes following every-move.

A Blade-panther lifts up from the grass, a Serengeti shouldered

Sparse echo of his brothers, lean-by Ten years. Another and another

More twin-like and sovereign, a Miner’s tipped cap bleats

out light and a Statesmen’s pen is thick with an inherited Ink.

What then of a Half-Life lived?

Twenty-five years swept up in men each doubly strong.

(Face to face) stone features well worn bewilder the elements.

One stark and emblematic, the other more-humbled

Eyes softened by fatherhood. A bold welcomed handshake, a Double

Arm embrace, and a whole-chested laughter. What

Might one say to the other, “You’ll have great kids,

A philio-so-sphere, a Red-curled lioness of the setting sun

On the Horizon-Where the burning never stops

or your boys, twin-Brother Elms-bolt cleft in twain,

one enthralling the other with Branches, a poet and a painter.

Who’ll have grown in your crystal city? On a hill, in a peaceful-valley

Nurtured as a Delta, You’ll build a heartfelt home. You’ll have a scraggy

Clay-formed dog, you’ll begin to resemble everything natural. You’ll ditch the belt buckle,

the cowboy boots, the horse, guns, motorcycle and glasses, you’ll fall

Asleep-by-nine. There’ll be paintings that flutter past your window

Too busy to catch.”

They might glance then together-off beyond

A Still-blurry phantom of Seventy-five, another two and a half decades

Showering the fields. Or off further in the distance a curious old man:

If you still believe I still believe

Trust me, There will always be time, I swear

You’ll never run out, no worries, kindness is everything.

Turned backward. From the forest reflective-entire, looking on divinely

And turning slowly to step into the woods.