Encore Presentation

 j.lewis aka Jim Lewis 

 

Jim’s nuclear family in 1963. Front row: brother Alan, father Evan, sister Becky, mother Lorraine, sister Janice.  Back row: brothers Randy, Ted and Jim. 

 

 

 Who’s the Father Here?

 

By Jim Lewis
 
The majority of my poetry is inspired by events in my own life, by intense feelings, by insecurity or despair. It’s all there, waiting for something to hang a poem on.
 
In these poems, you’ll see guilt, love, fear of loss, musings on working at a dead-end job, the joy of friendship, and the misgivings of being loved.
 
I suppose in a way poetry is my version of talk therapy, and I get to choose the topic and whether or not to share my conclusions and insights.
 
When I’m not writing about me, I’m likely to write about people who are important to me, including my father. He taught me honesty, integrity, and determination. Affection, not so much.

My father died at 94, just a couple of months shy of his 95th birthday. I had made arrangements (flights, car, hotel) to go see him on his birthday, but those all got rescheduled into a funeral trip. That trip is a whole story of its own that I’ve yet to write.

I’ll start with poems that show my relationship with my father.

sliding away

my family is sliding away from me
mother slipped away twenty-six years ago
left dad hanging on for dear life
adrift in a year of confusion, he rode
his horses across the new mexico hills
looking for her, for himself, for answers
though he already knew that cancer had none

today was mother's birthday and i had forgotten
totally, completely, maybe selfishly because
i am so wrapped up in other slippages
children with mental illness who are never right
never quite near enough to wrap arms around
wrap hearts around, rescue, protect

the years have drained their mother dry
and i watch her slipping too
less memory, less harmony, less energy
she used to love bringing us to table, delighted
in new flavors, new twists on old favorites
today may be a simple call for pizza delivery
or just a bowl of soup from the microwave
i'm holding onto her, two-fisted grip, refusing
to let her slide away, slide away

every conversation with father is a dirge
of regret. he wants his children closer physically,
emotionally. he needs the reassurance of touch
to know that we are not gone, that he still matters
he has entered the painful "if only" years where little
is golden, dreams turned to lead, to dust
and yet he fights, clings to life
with the same bulldog tenacity that gave me the will
to do the hard things that hard times require
i ache for his inability to love himself more
to trust, to forgive what might have been
feel the warmth of what is, and what will be
before he slides away

ache too, for being so much my father's son

These next two poems are bookends. The first was written a year before my father died. The second was written a year after. In reading them, one might wonder if we cared for each other. The short answer is yes. The longer answer is that we didn’t know how to show it.


 a shovelful of dirt
 
the carpet of northern new mexico rolls out
stained with sandstone reds and whites
sagebrush green, lava-flow black
under blue endless skies where clouds
whiter than winter snow flirt and billow
 
the freeway from albuquerque to gallup
feels like it's been here forever, though
i have young memories of route sixty-six
fewer lanes and longer trips. no matter
 
this is what flows in my blood, fills my mind
as i anticipate the inevitable news
i have no idea when it will come, only know
that when it does, i will pack up and fly
 
make the three-hour drive from airport
to carport, observe the rituals of his passing
drive southeast to ramah, his heart and home
greet cousins i haven't seen forever
 
and finally, after the obligatory prayers
without waiting to be asked, i will scoop
my shovel into red-tinged sand, listen
to the clattering of dirt and rocks on coffin
 
doing what old men have done forever
whispering goodbye, cursing myself
for the son i should have been, burying
my father along with a part of myself
 
 
final goodbyes
 
i said mine to my father
as i pushed past others
to throw the first shovelful
of dirt and rocks on his
final resting place
 
now i wonder why
i was in such a hurry
to bury him
 
did i think it would end
the wars we waged
the grinding against
each other, the pain
we dealt so easily
 
all i really wanted
was a better father
and he, a better son
 
 
soup and absolution

in the cold gray light
of a winter day
the evil i have done
is ugly and painful
grinds against my conscience
like millstone on millstone
resolve falling like meal
on the hard floor
of reality

i cannot look
at momma's face
as she places before me
chicken soup
thick
rich
and hot
i think she knows
as she always knows
that i have done something
she would not approve -
she does not ask
only watches
as i swallow her love
bite after bite
letting it melt
my icy heart
thaw my frozen tongue
into confession

momma simply smiles
sees the lesson learned
and grants me
absolution


twins

jekyll was just jim and i
the faces and the oddities
nobility and meanness
alternate grins and leers
running through days
spilling into years
the day and night
shadow and light
of who i am

and you are cinderella
buried beauty
heart that sees
in this pumpkin of a man
golden transport to your dreams

you left your slipper once
some noon or midnight
not in flight
but by design
etched around with careful verse
that called me by name
and didn’t care at all
that jekyll was just
jim and i

encore

come back into my life old friend
center stage and spotlight
sparkling as you spin
inspiration winking
from your sequins
and your smiles

come out from the curtained shadows
that hold you in brooding silence
always present and ever absent
tip your hat and tap your cane
bow with me again
as we do the old soft-shoe

don't let this show
close down

closer

When have I felt close to you
And wondered at a fleeting glimpse of heaven?
I started to lie and say it was
When I lay with you
One time or other.
But that was a different closeness
(The times that it was close at all.)
No, the times we intersected and I felt
Something more than mental
Were times when you
For reasons I still don't fathom
Forsook your dreams to come and follow mine.
Encouraged me.
Told me it was possible to be
Things I had never been and
Never thought I could be.
Did things that flew in the face of wisdom
And family convention.
Sacrificed to help me touch the stars.

I have a memory
You and me
Sitting in an empty church room 
Tossing ideas around
Me wanting to learn lost arts.
You said why not and gave up
House
Friends
Comforts
And your escape route
For my whim.
I marveled then as now
At the gesture.
In my heart of hearts I asked how
Or why
Would anyone do that for me?
Was it for love?
(Let me believe ...)

I have watched you burdened five times over 
Womb-wrapped wonders swelling you;
I trembled quietly for months with worry
That somehow you or they might fail their coming.
Oh, there are many, many moments,
Specifics that escape me
Of times I felt close to you.

What stays is the sense
Of you believing
Insisting without reason
That I could be more
Challenging my self-doubt
And caring (let me believe that too...)
That I carried so much pain.

So long you have waited,
Hoped for some way through.
Finally, the doorway opens
And even in the face of the pain of healing,
You have chosen to stay
Because you love me 
(let me believe this one last thing ...)
As no one else has been willing to do.
Really believed there was a better me.
Those times when you
Eyes full of hope and love and pain
Took my hands and said
"You really don't believe that"
Or "I always knew that if you would 
Speak your mind honestly,
Good things were there";

Those are the times
When for all that I have never been
And all I have never thought I could be,
I had to question my self-portrait
And yield myself to the most persistent,
Stubborn (and that has its advantages)
Determined (I'm running out of adjectives)
View that I'm really not as bad
As I would like to believe.

That view is the embodiment
Of what I see as love -
What I never knew
Until you.

To read more about Jim:
https://stortellerpoetryreview.blogspot.com/2023/06/storyteller-of-week.html