Happy Fathers Day, all you Fathers out there
In honor of Fathers Day I offer a little bit of poetry written by my own dear departed father. From this you may be able to see how I got the attitude I've got. (The photo is of my father and me, way way back in ancient times (I'm the one on the left).)
Your destiny is written in the books upon your shelf,
Your destiny is written in the books upon your shelf,
For History invariably returns unto itself,
And all the seers and the sages
Who survived throughout the ages
Have decreed that you will castrate yourself.
History is full of gutless bleeding hearts like you
Who destroyed themselves for lack of gut and thew;
And the heroes of the past
Will have their laugh at last,
For they know that you are doomed—that you are through.
The Romans lasted near a thousand years,
An Empire carved with axes, swords, and spears;
The world trembled at their feet
And saw their harvests reaped,
Their cities raped and plundered, through their tears.
But they grew rich and spoiled and lazy just like you,
And the men who survive this combo are too few;
All the jewels on their sandals
Couldn't stop those howling Vandals,
And they fell like gutless wonders always do.
Let your wife make your decisions;
Drink your beer, watch television;
But your children, who are sleeping in their beds
Will be softer yet than you are,
And that's taking things too far:
Oh, you've really put a curse upon their heads!
Does your daughter, when she trembles in her sleep,
Hear rockets roar, and hear the marching feet
Of men who know a craving and a thirst
For loot of war—and know they'll take her first?
You're as weak as milk, and soft as currant jelly,
So beware the Vandal with the empty belly.
He will never leap the net to shake your hand;
He will never try to make you understand;
He will kick you in the nuts,
Grease his tank treads with your guts—
At least you'll do to fertilize his land.
"FREEDOM"—yells the orator, while the banner of the free
Floats high, serene, in majesty o'er the Penitentiary;
"Peace, Brother!" screams the Flower Child parading through the town,
"Give us peace, you motherfuckers, or we'll burn the bastard down!"
Deny yourself the exotic fright
That comes when twigs snap in the night
And the known world shrinks to a campfire's light:
Outside of which the monsters prowl,
And grizzlies stalk, and lobos howl—
They are waiting there, waiting there for you:
Now what the shit are you gonna do?
Do you dare to seize a burning brand
And prove just once you are a man
And seek out this thing that waits for you?
Dare you? Dare you? No, not you.
Just pile on more wood till the fire leaps high,
And huddle close, and die, and die
A little more, a little more each day,
Till the wind that snaps twigs carries you away.
I have become convinced that the Warrior Spirit is passed on genetically or energetically from father to son - those that did a Warrior's deeds pass that on somehow - likewise those that sat in offices pushing pens pass that on - looking around it's obvious the pen-pushers outnumber/ed the Warriors. Knowing what they lived and died for this 'civil society' leaves a bad taste in my mouth.
Got chased down a mountain by a grizzly once - I'll tell you about it sometime - Lesson of the story - don't try camping where the bear sleeps!
My father's approach to grizzly encounters: make as much noise as you can, hollering and yelling, maybe hitting a bit spoon with a skillet or some such, and charge right at it. When a grizzly meets an animal that isn't afraid of it, it thinks twice and is likely to clear out, if only out of confusion.
There was a film made about ten years ago by Werner Herzog about a guy that went to live with the bears in the forest. He used to stand just a couple of feet from them and growl and the bears would often walk away - didn't always work though, in the end he was lunch. Later on a hunter killed a bear and when he cut the bear open found his hand and wrist watch - that's how they identified him and knew what happened to him!
Oh yeah, Happy Fathers Day!
Wow thanks for sharing that. Consider yourself blessed to have had a father so creative and poetic!
Your father was an excellent writer. I would love to buy a book of you ever decide to publish his collection. Please consider it.
He wrote a lot of poetry, much of it along the lines of Dr. Seuss and suitable for illustrated children's books. Also he wrote a kind of occult autobiography that might be really publishable, especially now that I am learning how to publish things.