A rare man indeed, mon Papa Jean

The writing speaks for itself. My father is getting older and has certain health issues. I wanted to write something with him in mind and this is what I came up with;



Mon Papa

Images of you; silent sagas spoken.
The black-and-white photographs;
running through Les Tuilleries in pre-occupied Paris,
mud kicked up from your strides covers your shorts;
or in Rives, a Sunday walk on the unpaved road
with grand-pere and grand-mere– your mischievous smile;
and as chef-apprentice in Grenoble,
dressed in all-whites, toes protruding
from a hole in your shoe–
images fixed in my mind.
It is then that I can hear you say,
in your rich-accented English,
“My son you cannot understand those times.”
Hard I do try though, in vain you will remind me.
I know... I know...
“my son, I have been through the war.”

And now, when I find you deep in afternoon sleep,
snoring as only you can– a colorful cacophony–
I watch you not wanting to disturb or wake you.
You have earned these cat naps.
Your work is complete.
These are the quiet years, when time’s clock slows,
and you can note the change
in seasons; the peculiar smell that low tide brings;
the everyday thrill of making birdie.
A man moderne in an un-modern time.
Stringing your own bow, your arrows unwavering.
Former soldier, sage centaurian, socialist to the end.
You have earned your keep
and these deep afternoon sleeps.

I look again at the black-and whites;
Your visage holds such promise,
though much misery to come– athletic, confident,
French, such a joie de vie.
Hard I do try to understand that past.
I know... I know...
“my son, I have been through the war.”