I'm here to make confession
at your imposing grave.
You taught me that discretion
was never for the brave.
You taught me so much else,
most was by innuendo,
at times I heard faint bells
and, sometimes, true crescendo.
For decades I begrudged
that snug and smirky grin,
you were, when you had fudged
my concept of plain sin.
You know all my complaints,
you did when you were living.
Now that you're with your Saints
would you consider giving
your views on how you treated us?
Five kids, like soldiers in the trenches,
control was yours, you managed thus
to dictate and to reap what quenches.
The fallout was of no concern,
you had strict rules, born in tradition.
No wonder you would never learn
to be a father on your mission.
It was, I say it with conviction,
a matter of your academics,
so homelife could be seen as fiction,
I do remember your polemics.
The smirk, so slight, on your pale face,
as you prepared to meet your maker,
inside that box, dressed up in lace,
no longer mover or proud shaker.
I did resent that you withdrew
not having shed your harsh behaviour,
you left a world that would renew
itself without your role as saviour
but what is strange in all of this:
I used to feel your force and power
whenever something was amiss,
be it atop the Eiffel Tower
or other, more mundane occasions.
The cord was cut with your good-bye
and undeciphered correlations
turned silent like MY Lorelei.
I was prepared to have one shoulder
assume its role of carrying
a rather big, obtrusive boulder,
because I thought by marrying
just indignation like a grudge
to soundings of a public voice.
I could discard my grief as such,
which, after all, was just for boys.
I sent you up some honest rhymes.
They did express my unrestricted,
and independenmt view of crimes
that I was sure you had inflicted
on unsuspecting, undeserving,
and rather frightened little guys.
Your heavy hand, so big, unnerving,
looked like a monster to our eyes.
But waking up the other day,
I heard a voice in fading dream.
It said 'Go find in stacks of hay
that precious needle which may seem
a task so utterly pathetic.
and when you hold it in your hand
you will be feeling kinaesthetic
and see the world as rather bland.'
I do not understand these mystic voices,
yet smell the wisdom of each word.
And gradually, some novel choices
arrive, and I have seen and heard.
Perhaps I see you now more clearly.
That's why I paid you this brief stop.
Good memories, I love them dearly,
so, just this once I'll call you POP.
Almost forgot my real reason,
it was not smalltalk, not at all.
By coming up this Christmas season,
remember when we used to fall
when skiing and I was the boldest,
who stormed between the tall pine trees.
And when the weather was the coldest,
I'd take my gloves off just to freeze
and show you guys of what stern stuff
my God had made me just to spite
you weaklings, soft, not half as tough.
Yes, so I meant to, if I might
say 'thanks' for yours and mother's genes.
They've served me well in many fields,
and given me the handy means
of tasting all this big world yields.
The Gods already have my praise,
but it is time to let you hear it.
It is an issue that I raise
just now, when I no longer fear it.
So, give me time! My evolution
will need it as I do unravel
my past inside my convolutions,
some day I will put down my gavel.
I do not know if I'll tell Mother
that I would pick in my next life
the two of you or just some other
genetic tyrants full of strife.
But you should know that when the Cello
was played at your last farewell party,
I felt a real urge to mellow
and of a laugh, so hale and hearty
that it would have been very shocking
to laugh out loud, although of joy.
But when I felt a vision knocking,
I had to tell you that your boy
will grow in wisdom even more,
which, after all, was YOUR obsession,
no longer wondering what for
the world would need the term Depression.