Sunday, July 20, 2008

Look at the Horizon

The boat plunges and rises
Against the current
As the waves battle the anchor
For control

My stomach churns and sours
The brow-bone starts to ache
As the tide pushes the boat
Towards the fishing hole

My father laughs, says,
"Keep your eyes on the
Horizon, son." All that's left now
Are the memories of his soul

Now, that you've died
I'm mad as hell, and I want you back
I don't want to wait,
For judgment day,
I need my dad here
To help me perservere
He always had, his dad to ask
What am I supposed to do,
All alone now, dad?
You left me here
You left me here
You left me here


Dusty said...

Well versed and thought out, Mac. I know how much you miss your Dad. I also know you will persevere and succeed, because that is who you are, and moreover, that is what your Pop would expect of you...

Whether he is here or not---keep the faith...

Your family misses you right now, too, and while the conditions are different, all of you must persevere until you are together again...

I loved the sentimentality and yearning questioning of your poem, Mac. Your Father would be proud of you, just as I am.

chattypatra said...

Mac, I hear you. I wrote this song last Summer. It was July 4th, and I was missing my mother - boy, did she love to celebrate that holiday!


Oh, Madre de mi vida
Yo no sé vivir sin ti.
Oh, Madre de mi vida
Siento que voy a morir.

A veces me pregunto
Si te asomas por ahí
Para ver lo que hago
Cada día en mi vivir.

Oh, Madre de mi vida
Ven y dime cómo estás
No aguanto la agonía
De no verte por acá.

Tu vida y la mía
Dios bien supo entrelazar.
Y es por eso que espero
Que me puedas contestar.

Oh, Madre de mi vida
¿Cuánto tendré que esperar
para vivir contigo
por toda la Eternidad?

Susanna Williams said...


I found this poem in the New Yorker a few months ago. I tore it out and taped it beside my bed:

Rain Light

All day the stars watch from long ago
my mother said I am going now
when you are alone you will be all right
whether or not you know you will know
look at the old house in the dawn rain
all the flowers are forms of water
the sun reminds them through a white cloud
touches the patchwork spread on the hill
the washed colors of the afterlife
that lived there long before you were born
see how they wake without a questions
even though the whole world is burning

--W.S. Merwin