Black (dr)ink
Father’s Day would, of course, make me think of my father (ardet nec consumitur). And my gramps (cave canum). And a little further back, all the way to Mose Wilson, who came over from Ireland in 1846. Yup, you can see where this is going.
Back in 2000, I went to one of my several mongrel motherlands, Ireland. Out of that trip came a handful of poetry. Here’s one for the fathers:
Black Ink
A long night out,
I’m full of black ink.
In the rare, oulde town,
I’ve found my link.
Now to stop this life
From falling down the sink.
But I’ve piped black ink
Many times before now.
On similar subjects,
I’ve expounded and growled.
There’s always something restless
Vagabond, and how.
And here I return to the place
Where my grandfather sweat of his brow.
He departed for something new,
Pensively, without a doubt.
Youth and good reason
Cast the rovers about.
There’s always a crossroads
For plain folks without clout.
I learned and lived that
Before taking up stout.
A long night out,
I’m full of black drink.
A simple man stuck
And prone to think.
Is contentment utopia?
An optimist’s fink?
I’ll sort it out soon,
And I’ll wield the black ink.
