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The Puzzles of the Father

by Ryan Nardi

Wrapped up and rapt in a book of Hesse
I wonder if my cryptic note
in the margin
will confuse my unborn son,
should he ever be conceived in deed,
and grow old enough and young enough
to want a beautiful book to read.

I wonder if his coming will precede
the earth-torn-asunder judgement scream--
before the Son of God arrives,
Quetzalcoatl-like
in trans-galactic-metal-light.

I wonder, awfully,
at what He'd have in store for me
for all the wicked thoughts and deeds
I treated like no more than fleeting dreams.

I hope His Kingdom does not come, literally,
but can BEcome inside of me,
inside my son,
more Buddha-like,
Kabbalah-allegorical-life--
not horsemen, pain, and death
and bloody rain on unfortunate men.

We orphans, begotten of star-sent seed,
are far too confused as yet to be
subjected to His scrutiny.
We need more time...if You're listening.

I've only just begun,
and I want to have a son
and let him know what my strange note means
if he comes to me,
should he want a beautiful book to read
and find it simply puzzling.

03/20/2010

Posted on 03/21/2010
Copyright © 2024 Ryan Nardi

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Gabriel Ricard on 03/22/10 at 07:17 PM

A lot of strange, remarkably compelling imagery running through this. It's got a great spoken word vibe to it as well.

Posted by June Labyzon on 03/24/10 at 08:53 PM

I love the first stanza....i have hundreds and hundreds of books, i write in all of them, in the margins throughout. I am always concerned that my child (now an adult herself) will think strangely of me when I am gone and the books are hers to keep or to dispose of. Intriguing read.

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