Category Archives: Modern Masters

Dad’s Poetry: Landscape

This emptiness we call a world,
swept edge to edge by aimless winds
is rubble built on ashes, where
six dancing shadows follow faith
and blisters answer prayer.

The counted moments of the clock
are stacked in crates upon a plain
besieged beneath a clouded sun,
beaten by incessant rain.

If landscape cannot make a refuge
nor memory a place to stand
yet you and I on this high rocky
pinnacle are met, and touch, and know
the realms where mind alone can never go.

– by L.W. Seeley, Jr.

Tags: dad’s poetry

http://kseeley.tumblr.com/post/4502477981/landscape

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The Stolen Child
W. B. Yeats, 1865 – 1939

Where dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water rats;
There we’ve hid our faery vats,
Full of berrys
And of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim gray sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.

Away with us he’s going,
The solemn-eyed:
He’ll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal chest.
For he comes, the human child,
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than he can understand.

Daddy Issues: Duet With My Father: Report From The Front

by L.W. Seeley, Jr.

Report from The Front

To begin with, the maps were no good,
and the scouting reports, sketchy at best,
conflicted. The weather reports were delayed.
Internal communications were out.
Estimates of enemy strength and intentions were varied,
but each report was accepted as gospel.
One thing was certain – we were cut off.
An occasional flare overhead revealed
our vulnerability to unseen enemy eyes.
A flash of brilliant light, a staccato burst of fire,
a few more down, writhing but silent,
like a parody of pain.
Everyone fought for the Right.
Each expected the other to quit.
All were angry and afraid.
One final objective: to live until morning.
A few might make it. To begin again.