hostage
to father’s work.
No
adult cared ’bout what they did
the
precious bond they broke.
I
stood and cried outside
the
house where I had played,
but
which to me was now denied.
He
was gone, I know not where;
but
always for him I shall care.
My
bedmate’s end was then decreed:
“That
duck must be undone!”
I
do not know who did the deed;
but
his frail fabric off was flayed:
soap
and flannel of him was made.
Of
resurrection hope there’s none.
Karl
was dear, we hugged and held;
but
off to Oz he went.
Long
years until again we spoke
were
separately spent.
Then
tears of joy did whelm my eyes:
till
he did vanish into cyberspace,
with
no clue of why;
or
what then I could do:
or
even of an act or unkind word
which
I should sorely rue.
Next
my mother went to heaven,
slaughtered
by a stroke.
To
hold me fast God promised then,
but
my heart almost broke.
David
danced into my life,
then
danced again away:
except
one latter day,
when
he remembered naught
of
that strange play
when
I did nearly go awry.
Deepest
loved was Adrian.
He
better far than I my love did ken;
but
Pete then Julie had his heart,
and
so from me he did depart.
I’ll
not see him again!
Nick
and Philip, Tom and John,
shared
faith and college years;
but
seasons came and now are gone
and
they did me forsake;
save
John, who kept troth ’gainst my fears,
until
that bond I’d sadly brake
for
fear of hurt I could not take.
An
elven flautist ’tranced my soul.
With
questing mind and hopeful heart,
striding
into my life he came.
He
glimpsed the part and saw the whole;
but
even his name does now my mem’ry flee.
Derek
was dear,
he
taught me much,
I
slighted him, I fear.
To
southern land he went
and
we lost touch;
but
grace was sent:
so
rather than my sin full drear
should
bind me in the grave,
he
lately me forgave.
My
heart, Keith warmed,
but
Wales his formed:
so
he took off with glee for Gwent.
Of
Pauls let less be said
than
floods right through my head.
One
despoiled my soul,
one
despised me whole
one
pursued his goal
to
teach the poor
of
Africa;
then
follow the spoor
of
feminine lure
to
America.
All
are for me no more.
Henry
burst into my world,
as
poet’s muse and mad daemon;
he
gave me life, but now he’s gone
and
I am dead within.
Last,
Philip loved and learned:
the
son I never had;
but
off he flew, to Orient far,
in search of wife,
renouncing
faith, he left my life
and
made me sad.
And
so it goes: the eternal train
of
broken faith and forgèd
chain;
of
given love and taken pain.
My
only hope for my own gain:
of
this frail life I’ll soon be free,
for
all of these are lost to me.
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