For James “Papa” McCloy, On The Occasion Of His 75th Birthday

I want to tell you about my dear father, the Reverend James McCloy.
He is the finest man you’ll find, and he’ll bring you such joy.
He was once known as Dad or Jimmy or Jim
But now we call him “Papa” — and everyone loves him.

Quick with a smile and his eyes all a-twinkle,
He’s steady of heart and can smooth out any wrinkle
You might have with work or a spouse or a friend.
He’ll stick by your side all the way till the end.

Now, you should know Papa is a man of independent thought
Who has said a few things that he shouldn’t have ought.
Like the time we were strolling the Back Shore in Maine,
When he turned to a couple we’d just met, and proclaimed,

“This island has been ruined by attorneys from Manhattan.
It used to be nice here, until all of that happened.”
The husband replied, “Oh, really, that’s funny, we’re lawyers, us two.”
Then his wife chimed in: “Oh, by the way, we’re from New York, too!”

A 100% Scotsman, Papa can’t resist a good deal,
Even if that means driving a car that will squeal
From brakes that need fixing or a fuel pump gone bad.
He’ll tell you about some bargain mechanic to be had,

Most of them an hour away in the Merrimack Valley,
Who’ll fix up your car and when it comes time to tally
The bill will be less than you thought you would pay,
(Of course, you’ll go back several times before it’s fixed the right way.)

Some hot summer evenings you’ll see him headed up Nugent’s Stretch
Leading a long line of cars with drivers who kvetch,
“Who is that guy driving that blue pickup truck?
I wanted to get home for supper and now I’m sh*t out of luck.”

That is our beloved Papa, I would tell them, if I only could.
He’ll teach you a thing about what’s right and what’s good,
Like kindness and loyalty and hope and good courage,
Or the lawnmower he found at the dump that’s in storage.

He’ll tell you about his dark-haired beauty named June,
For whom he would fly all the way to the moon.
He’ll share a story about his grandchildren; his pride it shows.
All the way from Andrew James down to Nina Rose.

For years, he pursued his calling as a Congregationalist preacher
And now he’s beloved as a substitute teacher.
Occasionally, the local church will invite him in on a Sunday
When he’ll always have something profound and interesting to say.

Loved by all from Rockport to California to Barbados,
Papa leaves his unique and indelible mark wherever he goes.
Clearly these words only scratch at the surface
Of a dignified man who has lived his life with purpose:

To keep up the faith and have something kind to say
And loan me his truck to go to the dump on Saturday.
Seriously, though, Papa, you’re the greatest man alive.
Whoopee! Hooray! We love you! You’re Seventy-Five!

From your son, Andrew, with love and affection.

-June 5, 2009

Doing the Limbo

Unfinished business

Below the bar

Lower it

And that’s where it hurts

Between two worlds

Bent over backwards

Between that and this

Incomplete me

God make me 

Incomplete to complete me

In this gap

This space between me and

The bar that keeps lowering

Between this and that

Buckle me backward

As I keep my chin up

Have it grow difficult

Because when I crawl nearly on my back

I learn how to pass on through

The Wedding Band

It’s faded now,

The indentation filled in.

You grew fat and unhappy

While the music played on,

Growing faint, diminuendo of the heart.

Clanging cymbal, you were: Own it.

And now this: the hairs on that finger stand up.

The sun has passed nearly 12 seasons over it,

Darkening the white strip of flesh.

We are all flesh, mortal in our actions.

You have caressed other women’s bodies

With that finger, tracing their silken secrets —

Bliss, finally, at this age,

Unfettered by the 0.25 troy ounce of

Alloyed gold that the symbol held.

Bought at a shopping mall and redeemed at one

At the height of the precious-metals bull market,

Everyone seeking ultimate security,

You plopped it down on a felt pad

In front of a buyer.

He examined it, weighed it, and sniffed:

“One hundred and eighty-five.”

"I’ll take it.”

Now, it’s held in a safe, or melted into an ingot,

Or refashioned into something new—
Glittering and cherished.

You'd like to imagine the latter.

There Could Have Been a Time

There could have been a time

When the path might have changed,

But nothing changed,

And the pain turned to adventure,

A cracking open of oneself,

Where the light finally shined.

In that space, divinity planted

Its seed, just as when someone

You love goes down in a plane

Or gets mangled in a car.

The shock of it all jolts

You back to your own life.

And everything grows crisp,

Sparkles, and lights from within.

Without the narrow places,

We would never access

The vastness of space,

Within, without.

52 Minus 20

Twenty years silted in,

Gone, poof,

To the day, and Time’s arrow

Still flies for me, truer, straighter,

Though I have sadly frittered away

Many hours, 

As we all do.

And yet for your physical absence

You have bestowed some indelible

Gift, a treasure of time to hold within

Me always — I return to the well-worn

Touchstone of the blessed present tense,

Again and again,

A slowing down,

To bridge the gaps,

Stitching moment with moment.

When I rest,
When I dream,
When I pray,

You return to me,
Brother,
Fully alive,

Ray of light,

Filling the void.

March 7, 2013

Esther

Beam of light,

Familiar yet foreign,

Her presence felt,

In a twinkle of a 
Cataractic opaque blue,

She saw clear possibility through

The days, and knew that hope

Endures and gets stitched into

Life with love, to make an elegant

Shawl in which we wrap ourselves,

Hanging together,

Because it remains all that we have

And hold onto,

More precious than anything.

The moon and the stars know this.

As does the rising sun.

And the birds by the window.

Or the cat’s eyes captures it.

Or the loping, drooling dog.

How about a child’s smile?

How about sheer delight?

Pay attention, she reminded us,

Without any lecture,

The way the very best teacher

Goes about it by example.