Poems of Nicholas Gordon

To my dad on his day,
Of whom I am a living will:
May your happiness fulfill
Your goodness, as is just and right.
Deeds are seeds upon the night
As wind and wonder have their way,
Delivering the destined light.

For you, my love, the happiest of birthdays!
Let this be a day your soul shall sing,
Rejoicing in the pleasure that this one day
Must to all who love you surely bring!
You, who give so much, should now be taking
What affection a poor soul can show.
Understand this little fuss I’m making
Is only what one mortal can bestow,
Touched by love too beautiful to know.

Make the most of every Christmas morning
Even when the weather’s not so clear.
Riches come and go with little warning,
Rendered only to what souls are there.
Yet some would spend their Christmas at hard labor,
Choosing to ignore the gifts of grace,
Having much, though little that they savor,
Resigned to serve the lords of time and place.
In Christmas there is work and there is pleasure,
So interfused one cannot separate
The labor from the loving, common treasure
Made from giving, much beloved weight,
A burden and a blessing both, that one
Should relish till the precious day is done.

You taught me how to love you by
The way that you loved me;
And by your unseen sustenance,
To see what you could see.

You gave to me through who you were
The gift of what I am.
Your pride in me is now my pride;
Your faith, my caravan.

Your life does not conclude with death,
Nor will it end with mine,
For all the lives I touch, you touch,
And so on through all time. 

Thank you, Mom, for making us
Happy, well, and good.
All we are depends on you:
Not what you say, but what you do.
Kids know what they should,
Yet need your hands for shaping us,
Opening and waking us,
Unveiling our view.

My mother, the queen of my heart,
Reigns in my sky like a moon,
Pulling the tides of my senses,
Lighting the paths of my dreams.

All melodies hence will play subtly
Against this first, dominant theme
That will turn their most delicate graces
Into harmonies they’ll never hear.

Nor can I visit the garden
Where once I lay wrapped in her arms.
The doors of the past will not open
Though I live ‘neath a dome of pure joy.