................................................................................................
The Poetry Of...
Francis Masat..............................................................
I Can No Longer Count
I had three fathers:
blood of lineage;
adopted by ancient rite;
law of in-law.
Raised in different ways:
work and family when young;
friends when outward bound;
community when starting over.
I learned from each:
persistence - turn the other cheek;
study - walk in another's shoes;
serve - be of use.
They are gone, but I made sure
they knew what they had done:
I persisted in learning and serving,
and can no longer count my riches.
Droplets
In full sunlight,
.......... without warning,
......................... a shower begins,
straight down, delicate at first.
Moments later, it spins passionately,
dancing in slanted, white racing swirls.
Droplets sift through a window
on warm hapless breezes.
"Tell me what it looks like," she pleads.
I start.
Our palm trunks are soaked with rain,
turning them from shades of gray
to deep tan and light caramel brown.
The rough bark of our mahoganies
have changed from mottled gray to black
beneath their vibrant green canopy.
Our waxy crotons shine with light.
each variegation of orange and yellow,
of red and green, sparkles brighter.
On our peeling gumbo-limbo trees,
shades of cinnabar spread out
in widening ....
I stop.
She has fallen asleep again,
and I simply sit and stare
at droplets
prismed on the window.
"Gandy Dancers!"
..........-for Emil Masat
-- way, way down the tracks.
A rough nomadic-like mystery
in their arrival, ridin' the rails
on flatbed hand-pumped cars.
A ready smile, a far away look
in their black luminous eyes.
Lean, sinewy muscles, corded,
burnished with sweat and wear.
With a tilted hat, they grin,
grimace, and taunt each other.
At night, tired and grit dirty,
cheap drink often served
as reward and sole companion.
Hefty iron tools seemed light
in their brown leathery hands.
Picking, tamping, setting spikes.
Heads bobbed, backs rippled,
feet shuffled as they clanged
along the rails, scraping, slowly
circling their Gandy tampers
as if dancing - gandy dancing
along the rails and oily ties.
They showed stoic endurance:
a tough, hard lasting ability
to keep going - to survive.
Always they moved on, heroic,
stirring young wanderlust.
Seeming masters of their fate,
they were, though, mere pages
for the screaming iron knights
that roared past, ignoring them.
The disregard grew and held
as gandy dancers were replaced
by giant spider-like machines.
But are such people really gone?
Have we merely changed a name?
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