You should have
             heard him.
                      his voice was
unforgettable, irresistible, hi voice
was an imaginary garden woven though with fragrance.

Did you ever have a family?
                      Their eyes are closed.
That's how I know
            we're there
                      inside it.
it's made of sound and steam
that weaves between dark
dining room, bright kitchen.
We're there because I'm hungry,
and we'll all be eating soon
                     together, and the hunger's sweet.

                       -- Alan Shapiro, "Song and Dance"

For my granddaughter...

Finding out who you are
requires searching,
seeing,
hiding your eyes from distractions. 
Not believing you should 
never open
your soul. 
Nor, hoping someone
will save you. 
And knowing,
realizing,
that only you can.

I have traveled afar

     To find my heritage.

          In search of those kings and queens

              Of tanned skin and dark roving eyes.

When I found a roving band,

      They lit their candles and lamps.

          Spinning tales that were old

              And rich in lore and fantasy.

I was born with the look of a traveling man;

     Traversing this land of meadows and mountains,

           Seashores and cities. And, I never

               Found gypsy kings or queens.

Just satin and lace,

      Their horses wild and cattle dogs nipping at the herds.

           Rolling on wagons decorated with colors and symbols,

               And their eyes looked through you, to the find a fellow traveling man.

This universe constantly advises me that

                this gypsy soul will forever

                                be a mystery to the moon.

But our moments speak of dreams

                that you have been

                                a wandering soul too.

This gypsy heart

                needs to wander.

Traveling to undiscovered mountains and caves

                that guard the world’s mysteries.

As I unturn every stone,

                I will explore every unmarked trail.

I will dive within the darkest seas,

    and, discover the secrets that were meant only for me.

Only sadness can convince all participants that moderation is necessary...

From Razib Khan

http://www.unz.com/gnxp/living-in-a-world-that-is-but-isnt-ought/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=living-in-a-world-that-is-but-isnt-ought 

Give me back my father walking the stables,
     with sawdust and hay clinging to his boots.

Give me back his hand-hewed tools,
     his saddle and his lariats.
Give me his daydreams on lined paper.

I don’t understand this uncontainable grief.
Whatever you had that never fit,
     whatever else you needed, believe me.

My father, who provided for many,
     always had the time to squat down at your side
     and listen to your dreams.

We walked on the bridge over the Indiana creek
     for what turned out to be the last time.
It was just a moment, really, nothing more.

However, I remember marveling at the sturdy cables
     of the bridge that held us up.
And threading my fingers through the long
     and slender fingers of my grandfather.
An old man from the Old World
     who long ago disappeared into the nether regions.

And I remember that six-year-old boy
     who had tasted the sweetness of air.
Which still clings to my mouth
     and disappears when I breathe.

Never Ending Story: Part 5 -- The Next Generation

He realized the old legend was true: one out of every million octopi have the potential to evolve into a kraken.  All have failed; until now. A kraken -- a mighty octopus as big as a sailing vessel.  The diver realizing what was happening, let go, and tried to swim away. The kraken threw the diver across the pier, and the diver crumpled to the ground. The kraken rose up over the remaining crowds, towering thirty, no, forty feet above them. He yanked on the tethered line and it broke freeing him from the spear.  He rushed up the pier scattering people, smashed the post and freed the mermaid. Gently, he cradled her in his tentacles, and dove into the channel, swimming quickly toward the sea.  

Arrows and spears rained down him, most missing with a few hitting their target, and deeply wounding him. He ignored the pain, and dove further into the dark seas leaving a trail of ink and blood. Finally, where no man could go, he stopped.  He looked down at the mermaid.  Her colors had returned and she glowed: indigo blue, teal, pink and red. She gently caressed him and began to dress his wounds. As she tended to him she sang a song explaining why the Marquesas’ Islanders revere the octopus -- the octopus represents freedom and regeneration. Freedom to move effortlessly through their environment and establish and reestablish new homes; regeneration because when they lose an appendage or kin, their limb is regrown and new family members are born.

The mermaid and the octopus continued their journey deep into the ocean. No one ever saw them again; no one knows where they went. And, even today, the legend of the kraken is believed to be a myth.

“Pop-O”, cried out one of the little children.  “Pop-O, what happened to the mermaid and the octopus? Where did they go? Are they safe? Will the octopus recover from his wounds?” the young child began to cry silently. Pop-O reached down and picked up his great – granddaughter, held her gently his arms, and began to rock her slowly. As he soothed her tears, he marveled at her long blonde hair and dark green eyes. 'Could she be the one?', he thought silently. He glanced at the woman he loved, and she nodded approvingly, her blond and grey hair swaying gently.

“Shush, shush, little one. We will never know the answers to all your questions.  However, we do know love is stronger than any other emotion, and has no bounds, no limits. It lasts through many lifetimes and blooms when the conditions are right.  Do not fear for the octopus and mermaid. Wherever they are, they are safe and are living peacefully together,” he gently whispered to her and the other children gathered at his feet.

Pop-O then handed the child to his granddaughter and turned to look at the woman he loved. She was wearing her favorite outfit -- blue indigo skirt, teal green sweater and a reddish pink shawl.  She had aged as he had; however, he only saw her aura of beauty, grace and serenity. Gently, with his arm bearing the scars of a violent struggle from a long time ago, he pulled her reddish pink shawl over her teal sweater clad shoulders. A chill was in the air. Taking her hand, they said goodbye to the children, turned and slowly walked down the lane. As night fell, and the stars shown brightly in the sky, they disappeared from sight.

To Be Continued