At 50 I finally see
What precocious 10 could sense
but not articulate
The Mass - is only the ice berg's tip at sea.

Dad was an earnest lad
Son of a Gloucester gal
Sweet fish monger of deep faith
And an alcoholic father
Who wounded Dad's deep pride.

War and a Naushon Forbes
Gave Dad his life long tasks
He understood the savagery of life
Yet left the chimes of music to a valley.

Dad would not take a drink
The Pope could not have ordered it
Nor any lesser mortal
His hope was in that Mass
Though he may well have known
But never said a word
That Father's secretary
Took care of more than paper.

Do not carelessly dismiss
This thing called faith
That spared me an alcoholic father
A harsh man who could not understand a poet son
He understood this world
I can not blame his need of hope for another.

zahida