To A Stone-Carving Son
It is written in stone, these subtle sonnets,
scribed by the heart and hand of a man;
a mere man, no, never, but a carver
of the soul’s deepest desires for peace,
and love and justice, unnoticed and unnamed,
at times, by a world so wearying in its rush.
In the forest, in a high hung tree house,
he sits, like Pan, fluting his feathered phrases
that will be gathered by sky gods, carried high
will be dropped like a gift at the step of a friend.
I take his slated poems, place them around
sacred fire pits where we shall sit and ponder
how many words and poems he has thought
and never written yet. They wait, like new spirits
forming on the tip of his tongue, like a prayers
yet to be said. I am a gatherer of such
and I am building mountains to rise to
one poem by one poem until I have reached
the place where his true soul resides.
For Richard Doiron on his 60th birthday - Jan 22.07
Well, Carol, your words today rather brought tears to my eyes. This is such a wonderful gift. Ever since I can remember I have shared my love of words with others, but only occasionally have others responded in kind, not that I have expected that to happen. In any case, today is a milestone for me, and this poem is about as good as it gets.
I gratefully accept your wonderful gift and acknowledge you once again as the precious person you are, both in my own world and in the world overall.
It is sunny here today and I think your words have even caused that to happen. Thank you ever so much for being you and including me in the reality of you.
Richard Doiron
It is, my friend, and I join you in that milestone in July….where did those years go?
I will join you, though in March with the release of StraightWalk. I am honored and thrilled to be doing so.