The Mighty Viking

Yes, Dear.

I say it despite knowing
the joke of the man so stripped of confidence
that he values himself so poorly
his capitulation captures the derision of everyone.

Yes Dear,
Because I trust that you know this
that you don‘t want a man
who is no man,
Who eschews his manhood
Who rages against being who he is
Because I trust that you believe in this man
And whose dignity and masculinity is important to you.

Yes Dear.
I trust this, and trust you.
to take what I give, and return it to its place
having packed my admission of devotion
with your own admission of acceptance
and returned to me an equal measure of devotion
to the Thing that we are
together.

Yes Dear.
Because there is no distinction between you.
and me
We are a Thing unto itself, that cannot be separated
That will not be separate
To say “Yes Dear” to you
is to trust that I am, through you,

saying Yes to myself
This is how We are,

Yes Dear.
is not a denial of my own pride
nor a submission of one soul to another
But rather a statement of pride
in the Us
in the Trust
that you and I are equal participants in We.

 

The stories that come to me at 4 in the morning, to be told
Do not come to me to be told to someone else
They wish, like all stories in my head, to be heard, but I cannot tell them to others.
They are full of cold, of grey things that should have color.
Things that did have color. My 4am stories are stories of color lost
of Hope, forgotten.

But they will not let me forget.
These stories come back, look over my back. Wanting to get out and play with the others
But they do not play well with others, these cold, grey stories.
No, they make others go all cold and color drains from the lips of the storytellers

8am stories are full of anticipation. They yawn, and stretch, and smile through sleepy eyelids, remembering that the new day brings new things, fun things, joy and brilliance, dazzling in the morning sun.

Noon stories are full of Today – of the way of things happening now.  One moment I’m telling a story , the next it is being made.  Stories of weather, or the pranks of the day, of the smile, or kiss, or the touch of a hand still warm and fresh on my lips. 

Dinner stories are full of exertion, of telling the tale of success, of industry, things that has been done, that must be rested from, but from which great satisfaction has come.

In the evening, with friends I remember, memories of acquaintances I’ve had, or that I have now, things that are connected through this busy day, or of yesterday.  Evening stories are melancholy, rich fields ready for harvest.

In the midnight hour my stories are hushed, sleeping tales of bravery, epic heroes, requited love, flowing poems of deeds and dreams. The midnight hour is the time of my muse.

But when the waking growl of the log trucks break through the distant muffling fog, the 4am stories have already stricken me speechless

Sleepless horrors still unspeakable
Stories without words,
drowned in the watery depths of the sea
These stories can never share – should never be shared.

The cold creeps up from the Deep.
The grey falls down, the fading flicker of dying hope.

I am caught where they meet, in their steel jaw.

In a watery tomb my body grows cold

My mind becomes grey

An unwilling patron of an awful, eternal theater.

Daughter plays upon the heath

Father’s watchful gaze beneath

Innocence a halo’s wreath

Kept aloof by sword and sheath

Daughter wayward flees

Climbs aloft amidst the trees

Sword cast down, abandoned seas

Father’s guard exchanged for pleas

Daughter love her Father gives

Daughter’s love and Grace forgives

Pain and sorrow, love outlives

Freeing love, hate falls captive

Father lets his daughter go

kiss a memory, free her soul

Child to Woman, heaven’s glow

Another child begins to grow

Father watches time pass by

Daughter’s love is grace’s eye

Wife and husband edified

Father’s love is testified