To My Late Father

My father passed away a week ago.
I lacked the time to contemplate his loss
Until today, when other pressing matters
Were finally behind me. Now I can
Begin to ruminate on all he did
For me and all my family. He was
A teacher, first and foremost: O, he taught
Us, and influenced us in many ways.
His was a special wisdom, and it's not
Found easily in our so changing world.
This is the tragedy of his demise:
Here was a father--when comes such another?
Few of us wish to take the time to value
The insights of the aged; we prefer
The giddy present and its new ideas.
We're like school-children: bored with history
And all that it can teach us; then, too late
We learn the past's mistakes when we've repeated
Them--all we had to do was listen to
Our teacher. He'd have warned us of the errors
That past civilisations made...and rued
When it was far too late to turn the tide.
This was my father's deeper understanding:
Conserving wisdom for new generations.
It pained him knowing that all cultures rise
And fall because too few would care for them.
It angered him that people take for granted
All that we have, not knowing it will die,
And sooner than we think. He hated death,
And would have die only those who have killed.
His love of life was such that, tirelessly,
He tried to stretch his life to the latest year.
And similarly, he'd preserve the values
That he believed in, and oppose those who
Would liberally make reforms of them.
Now, to reform them was to put to death
All that he cherished and identified with.
Thus, his frustration with this changing world
Would make him temperamental, and he'd lash
Out at us, his four children, in a rage
If we did not conform to his high standards.
This hard severity would make us feel
Antipathy to all that he held dear;
Thus, he could be his own worst enemy,
Since the conserving of all that he prized
Requires those sympathetic to his cause:
The preservation of the home, the Church
And our great nation in sweet harmony.
So much time has gone by that memories
Of when he walked with us are a faint blur.
If only we had worked to keep alive
What mattered so to him; we'd reminisce
With vivid mental images of his life.
Instead, we let it all just slip away:
We were too busy with other concerns.

--September 27, 2009--

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