Fathers From Around the World

My heartfelt thanks to Holistic Wayfarer (on A Holistic Journey)and the amazing writers with whom I share this space to pay tribute to our fathers.

Happy Father’s Day to dads … past, present and future.

A Holistic Journey

When I was not yet three years old, John Richard and Grace Elizabeth Ingram adopted me from an orphanage in southwest London. When I was four, a stroke left Dad paralysed down his left side; he died when I was 18.

I can still hear the cranky squeaks of your wheelchair. And the clicking of the calipers attached to your legs below the knee. There was the incessant wheezing from the asthma that later attended the paralysis. Your body was your burden. Your light relief was watching the BBC news and “being tickled pink,” as you liked to say, by the old classic British comedies. Dad’s Army. The Good Life. Rising Damp. As a child I longed to pick you up and carry you on my back. Far and away from your wheelchair and back to the fleeting memory I had of you as my able-bodied dad…

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Tribute to my father

When I was not yet three years old, John Richard and Grace Elizabeth Ingram adopted me from an orphanage in southwest London. At the time, my dad was the minister of a thriving church and I was the fourth (and youngest) adopted kid in my family. My heritage is of African descent and my adoptive parents are Caucasian. When I was four, a stroke left my father paralysed down his left side; he died when I was 18.

Due to the stroke, it was difficult for dad to speak so we spent countless hours communicating by playing games of dominoes. Dad would rest his paralysed arm on his card table and play a ferocious game of dominoes with his “good arm.” Invariably he won. Ironically, my dad’s nickname for me was “Topsy.” Even if I didn’t win against him at dominoes he expected me to come top of the class in all my school subjects. I did my best not to let him down.

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If I quiet the voices in my head I can still hear the cranky squeaks of his wheelchair. The clicking made by the calipers that were attached to his
legs below the knee. The incessant wheeze from the asthma that attended the paralysis. His body was his burden.

As a child there were times when I longed to pick him up and carry him on my back. Far and away from his wheelchair and back to the fleeting memory I had of him as my able-bodied dad. Now that I’m an adult, I believe there are no accidents. My dad is my role model and I have found my dream job improving the lives of persons with disabilities in Sierra Leone, West Africa.

Thank you dad! Happy Father’s Day.

Lady Serenity

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When Lady Serenity
saw me, she swerved.

Her detour a reminder not to dwell on anxiety.

I want to absorb the tempo of my female hero.

Go with her on a journey. We’ll decide.

Fill a syrup-colored packing case with maps loosely packed.

Plan our getaway on the backs of envelopes.  Take me with you.

“Live and love as if there’s no tomorrow.” I wish she’d said to me.

“Die to tomorrow.”

Add as a P.S.

 

Poetry Challenge #27: Forced Entry

trees knowledge

Your
forced
entry
leaks
into
my heart.

I’m more
accustomed
to
tracing
desire
on
paper.

I fell
in
love
with
your story.

Not
your
body.

Is
there
a
place
to
place
my
body
beside
you?

I’m
Undecided.

Your
tale
is
my
souvenir.

Can we
leave it
at
that?

Not try
to extend
the franchise
on our
love.

Be more or less to each other.

Poetry Challenge #23: Forgiven

She adds the tragic loss of her daughter “Michele” to the mystery of how humankind came to be here on Earth.

If God’s people cannot agree on the Beginning of Time, her wish is that her daughter will never trace her and save herself the disappointment of discovering the tale of her beginning  —

“Once

Upon a Time.”

Her homeland is a primitive island in the midst of the Caribbean Sea.

“Learning to reading

and

writing”

was reserved for the rulers of the island.

As Michele grows up, she will want to be read to at night. What

will her mother tell her? Should she say that her eyesight is poor.

              *        *       *

My illiterate, mother.

I span her like a shadow self,

calling out her name. “Frances”.

 

Step into my tracks, Frances. Frances.

Tell me your life story. In my dreams

you are a lifesaver.

 

You are a palm reader. You read palms.

You read me every night.

There beside me…. whispering incantations,

telling me what comes next…

Replacing fairytales? Replacing

sorrow.

I remember who I am today.

Tomorrow.

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Poetry Writing Challenge #16: Riddles in Rainy Weather

The challenge for today is to pick a language that you don’t know, and then translate a poem in that language.

Use the sound and shape of the words and lines to guide you, without worrying too much about whether your translation makes sense!

I chose to translate a poem written in Norwegian from a collection called Regnværsgåter (Riddles in Rainy Weather) by Gro Dahle.

HVEM ER DET SOM VENTER PÅ DEG UANSETT HVA DU HAR GJORT UANSETT HVA DU HAR SAGT MYKERE ENN DU HADDE TENKT BEDRE ENN DU KUNNE HUSKE?

Puten din
i det slitte gamle trekket
Et eneste stort kinn
av omfavnelse

Have they met some Ventura (good fortune) perhaps inserted afar? You have jotted down “Inserted Afar”, you have said Mercury in the Heavens; think betraying them, you can help?

Put it down!
I do slither as gamblers trekked.
And earnestly sought out kindred spirits
Above the state of OM (primordial vibration),
Five nails I see.

Below is the correct translation of the poem.

WHO IS WAITING FOR YOU REGARDLESS OF WHAT YOU HAVE DONE REGARDLESS OF WHAT YOU HAVE SAID SOFTER THAN WHAT YOU HAD THOUGHT BETTER THAN WHAT YOU COULD RECALL?

Your pillow
in the worn old cover
One big cheek
of embrace

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Poetry Writing Challenge #15: Saltoun Sea, California

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Saltoun Sea, California

I don’t know how to tell you of this journey and not forfeit my peace of mind.

I have been attempting to draw a line under
my Book of Experiments for almost a year now.

My equations calculating density,
Tidal waves and unremitting desire.

I want to be an inventor; to exist on more
than faith and mineral water, coffee and exercising.

Present a bunch of lilies to my lover at the week-
end, unapproachable as he is — all hot air,
apt to blow a fuse at the mention of marriage vows.

I’m remembering our most recent heterosexual position on
high ground at the Joshua Tree National Park. Seduction

above the heads of Emerald trees, looking in the direction of the inland

Saltoun sea –

created by a freaky flood in 1905.

It is said (by whom?) that the Saltoun Sea
sits on top of the San Andreas Fault Line.

If this is true, then I suck my teeth at her pop-up location.
This unfathomable so-called Sea, her
Longevity as unlikely as my holy matrimony.

If only a wave would roll over me and dispel my unease.
Return me to my senses!

The native wildlife, mountain lions etc.,  I roll my eyes at, but that is a given for me.
I lay down. Avert my eyes from the landlocked sea.
Turn inwards towards my spiritual sea.

Nothing to read but the ancient future.

HOLY SMOKE IS FOREPLAY

Naked woman. Ivory. Third Intermediate Period....
Naked woman. Ivory. Third Intermediate Period. On display at the Louvre, Paris, France. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I’m holding a sign that reads… Holy Smoke Is Foreplay.

You brought me to an amazing place, you introduced me to my higher self.  My reality is shifting to accept this nucleus.

Somewhere I’m naked with you. There’s a photograph of us making out in front of a mural. We have somewhere to exist.

It’s unlike me to speak at this volume. If I’m spotted, I will run in the opposite direction. My shadow self is battling to hold onto me. She’s cutting my clothes to smithereens.

Somewhere I’m lying naked with you. In the desert springs. You beckon across the sky to me….  And my vagina opens out into a seahorse.

Priests of the beautiful, separate me from my Self indefinitely.

Don’t ask me what this means, travel, find out/discover for yourself.  When you return, tell me who you met and what you saw.

I will be at my bonfire.

Spirit?

In my unremarkable corner of the world I’m thinking what’s really going on?

Whilst it’s been widely publicised that humanity has reached the tipping point in favour of the Age of Aquarius and today is the newly-inaugurated NATIONAL HOLIDAY TO COMMERATE LETTING GO OF THE PAST COMPLETELY: all that my cynical brain can come up with in response to both those claims is a rather pathetic “Really”.

As in “Really you don’t say…”

I pride myself on being able to digest the 5 a day fruits and vegetables equivalent of New Age mumbo jumbo spiritual advice which lands on me in a heap every time I turn the pages of “The Secret”, but does letting go of the past really include not caring that I didn’t put my rubbish out on the right day at the right time as dictated by British Government diktat.

In case you’re foreign and unaware: here in the UK, parking your garbage bags at home carries a heavy financial penalty. It’s 40 pounds for a first offence, rising exponentially week on week.

So glad I studied Russian language (and Russian culture since the Tsars’ time) for my university degree in modern languages and international relations, otherwise, I wouldn’t have a fucking clue about what’s going on in so-called modern Britain (as ruled by the Conservative-Liberal Democratic alliance for mutually destructive twits).

(Sorry am I starting to rant?)

To mark the occasion of “letting go of the past completely”, I do hereby stop regretting each and every moment that I’ve been dishonest and fucked somebody simply for the pleasure of driving the proverbial knife into the heart valve of my partner.

 Forgive me: I know not what I do….

On a clear day when the sun is high in the sky and the heavens are cloudless, I regret nothing but my ‘unpleasant sweetness’.

Memory of the World

Logo of the Memory of the World Programme
Image via Wikipedia
Français : Marche sur le feu à La Réunion.
Image via Wikipedia

Burning stones

Burn my feet.

I roll my soles sideways

Miss the heat.

I am not a martyr

Seeking Illumination or Cleansing

Purity through induction into firewalking.

I am not the master of God

Nor is God my master.

I am not available for miracles, transubstantiation

or the rest of that sacred ilk.

I do not wish to catalogue

define

give a whole bookshelf

over to

What is…