Ancestor

My councilor,

is wonderful...

yet...not so kind,

to tell me

what I wish to hear...

oh no,

my councilor tells me

what I need to hear,

and damned if I don't like it.

None the less...

he persists in his advise,

always the one,

with the other in him.

He delights in my discomfort...

he continues to demand.

He calls me into question of myself.

He is a constant guide...

a light...

a blight upon my being,

and my certainty...

testing every balance I have won.

He is the breath of my world,

as I am the dust...

he is the father of my mystery.

I bear no weight against his might,

and yet...

from time to time I turn him,

as his voice of many waits...

silenced for a time,

and I argue...for my kind.

He returns...

his answer blunt,

or...chastened,

and as if...he even cares...

he cautions me with love...

adjure's me...

not to worry so.

 Allowing me,

where other's wont...

forgiving me...

his fatherly appreciation...

knowing no bound.

He is quite piqued by honesty's inverse.

He will not suffer long...

that son, who puts him on.

So, we commune...

commit to meditate,

alike...as one...almost,

and he and I...

a father and a son,

a soldier and a ghost,

touch one another's souls...

somewhere

in convoluted space and time...

his Wizardness...

I wisdomless,

bear witness of him...

and...I guess...of me, he does the same.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016   Deming, New Mexico

Photo Credit: Unknown, Humboldt Redwoods