Some conversations lately (namely with <poztatt> and <forgelives> have gotten me thinking of some stuff I read some long time back. This one in particular is eight years old. Just re-read it. I could have written it last night, after reading some posts on my list…
I suppose some would say I am no longer the ‘youngest brother’ of the pack, but this is an odd topic for me. The whole this/that by perception thing that works me a bit. Some think I am pure mentor, I think I am pure student, a novice. I know the truth is smack in the middle, but still I know I need to be careful. There is an easy path to resentment in growing past my boy without experiencing it. I know this. I strive to temper the loss of opportunity.
I am amazed at its accuracy. Have I really made no advances in eight years? Perhaps advance and subsequent set-backs…
(For those who missed my earlier poetry entries, the lower case ‘i’ is not a reference to a submissive man’s viewpoint. It was in reference to my younger self’s view of the capital ‘I’ being pompous and improperly elevated past the remaining pronouns. ie. i am no more important than you…)
the lost legacy
11.02.98
where have the leathermen gone?
i was born too recently,
i awoke too late.
most of my brethren have crossed over;
left this realm without me.
or else, they waiver at the brink
of the sprawling maw
that consumed my family
while my newborn eyes were sealed.
the history and community
that is my legacy and heritage
has been pillaged and plundered,
and my voice rises in anger
up to the heavens.
i attempt to reassemble the rubble,
the ruins demolished
by those who do not know
themselves or the skins they wear;
those who do not open their minds
to the whispered self
from long ago;
the solemn, rusty voice of ancient rituals of manhood;
rituals that earn and encourage respect
for others and the skins that bind
them together as blood kin.
their minds remain closed
to those whispered rituals
and the echoes and voices continue to fade into nothingness.
scattered upon the winds, i long to find
those who survive and live true.
i grow weary of my isolation
and i long to connect with
the remnants of those brothers
i have never known;
those who survive the chasm;
those whose minds remember the way;
those whose whispers
fill the dark corners of my mind,
whose shadows cast
across my deepest dreams and fantasies;
those who respect themselves, their involvements
and the others with whom they share themselves.
my brothers, hear my call;
hear my cry.
use my voice as a beacon;
for your youngest brother yearns
for your return.
i search and find some echoes of the past,
faint voices and faded images
too hoarse and weary to teach the way.
occasionally, i am blessed and receive a gift
within the wisdom and experience
of one who knows and lives;
and i know and feel the bond between us.
but, mostly, i find those who dress themselves
within the guise of my brethren,
but they are only men wearing leather.
where have the leathermen gone?
gryphon's hole 