Monday, June 4, 2012


I never held my father's hand
but I have his gauntlet
Brought by survivors from his warband

And every year I grew a bit
I stuffed wool and straw into his gauntlet
But I could never make it fit...

Rage and blood
watered this soul
and filled it up
and made it whole
and the man became
a fearsome thing
and the gauntlet fit
where steel and iron sing

But that was then
the monster broke
to free the man inside

and some of him
was lost forever
with the passing of blood's tide...

Thank God the gauntlet rusts
Thank God I have no son
my daughter counts the fingers lost
and strokes
what remains
when she's done

(The vague idea of this poem/song has been with me for many years. The original title was 'The Gauntlet No Longer Fits' and it has something to do with outgrowing your battles, but although I had the idea, I only completed it very recently. I wrote the first two verses some time last year, because I saw it in my head and realized finally that it was a progression of different stages in someone's life. Then it rested, until the second half of May 2012, when I saw the rest fitting into their slots, like puzzle pieces. Is peace possible despite wounds and scars of battles past, or because of them? t.y.m. for helping....)

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