Ode To My Father
Alms Inn, there is the place again, and here
I, far away, muse in the house I grew
O this village of my love, has grown too
The golden hills with lilacs filled, the sweet
Soft of morning dew, and my dusty feet
Leaving his brighter sun for school and care
Whilst he with poetic dreams filled the air
And orange blossoms buzz with fragrance fair
And O, orange blossoms buzz when
In my mind I hear his voice again.
Father, fragile though festive fold of hills
Where drought walks dissonant on dribbled dreams
Your memory abides here still, and bright streams
Of laughter where you paced or sat unveiling
History and poetry and farmed feeling
Of the world. Like a nightingale's voice spills
Through the village gate, sublime as sacred thrills
The organ dissipates, and crannies fills
With thy deep eloquence and pride
And thy wide eyed child by your side.
Regal of an African line, birth low
Amidst the Maroon bramble, up you came
Out of the German mire of blood, a flame
Carrying bushman and midwife through night
The falcon feathered for the frolic of flight
Over foreign spires, in the bright rainbow
Father, still your footsteps that path does show
Mud deep, bright towards the future we go
Athlete, scholar, tempest and mist
Man above men will foes insist
And I today churn in praise my new lines
Waking like a womb of fresh beginnings
A virgin voyage of my form, deep gleanings
Of the mind's creativity. I bring
It, tribute to you, blush before my king
For whose awesome form my love matchless pines
Seeking your worth in joys of new designs
To carve your honor on our human minds
First of our black place to unfold
Upon white space petals of gold.
This proud veterinarian, this wave
That pulse across the Caribbean's shores
This first in rank in all the shackled chores
This noble patron of the arts, this child
Of business, that upward through nights here toiled
To say I am free, stir now gloomy grave
You shall not hold him forever a slave
When jubilee comes, and our God shall save
For of all the joys that is known
He loved his God, and grace was shown
Time and us are leashed memories
With time I tell love's true stories
And so its oft, when love in fancy strays
I to Alms Inn, where my boyhood still plays
In St. Elizabeth, behind the brimmed drays
Here in white pattern of dust I reclaim
The glory of my father, all my name
For we are nothing who have no past, sir
No identity the shard soul to stir
Shorn from the traditions of father's ways.
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