Clouds Sing, Earth Feeds

The gift of shapes born in a cloud Could never make my father proud, Or accolades of merchant‘s turn My mother’s head toward my return, Imagination lost on one, But dad’s shoes worn meant dad had won. Both parent’s dreamed of child’s success But other’s pride spelled emptiness For years they towed the parent’s line Ignoring blisses grand design Life’s meaning was vicarious Their messed up lives beyond redress. I do not say there was no joy But expectations plagued the boy, For if one won the other lost And keeping peace had quite a cost. Our meals at home, a tense ceasefire, Most seasoned by both tears and ire. My Dad was easiest to hate He had the means to change our fate, Mom’s sadness certainly could scare, Seemed most on Dad, he could not share. She viewed Dad’s livelihood as curse And his success just made things worse. In truth both parents had their dreams To see the world, an artist’s schemes, Though Father’s dreams weren’t given voice And raising kids derailed Mom’s choice, Dad’s path was not his bliss at all His family proved his downfall. That both had lack of empathy, In retrospect is plain to me. And now it seems that every fight Found justice just in being Right Their politic’s dark history, No plan to set the other free. And should God care who wins at last Their plans for children so miscast? Shine light upon eternity And share with all the love you see That Spring saw grow to mighty host That served God, Son, and Holy Ghost. Brian Johnston January 1, 2016