At the Pearlie Gates,
the hour being late one glorious afternoon,
Brothers Jeremiah and Ezekiel,
stand outside heaven’s threshold
waitin’ to welcome and take the hand
of their newly departed cousin.
These angelic greeters, timelessly roll, heal and toe,
pullin' down on black suspenders,
and lookin’ out from under wide-brimmed hats
shielding their eyes from the glare of bright billowed clouds.
Brother Jeremiah, absent-mindedly strokes
a coarse close-cropped beard,
the look of day-dreamin' written across his face.
Brother Ezekiel, on the other hand,
as time and several more clouds pass by,
rocks and rolls a little faster,
the snap of his suspenders growing increasingly louder.

“Brother Jeremiah, has our cousin not crossed over the bridge?
The afternoon wanes. ” Ezekiel snips.

“Patience, Ezekiel. Yours grows thin, Brother.
Remember, thee has no say in the matter of crossin'.
Rest assured, our cousin comes.”

Jeremiah and Ezekiel fall once more into a silence,
biding time each within their own contemplation.
Many clouds drift by effortlessly, as meanwhile
other celestial greeters have appeared,
passing through the gates with wide-eyed newcomers at heel.
St. Peter, himself, gives them a curious wave from the distance.

“Jeremiah,” Ezekiel’s stern voice breaks the hush,
as something heavy weighs on his mind.
“Ye know brother, he be another kin of the prodigal.
They lived, all, with the English, nigh these many years.
Not a one did return.”

“I am aware, Brother Ezekiel,” chides Jeremiah.
He be our cousin, none the less, as were the others
come down from the prodigal.”

They resume a peaceful, yet watchful wait,
while above a sleepy sun yawns with the passing hours.
The quiet is but temporary, for troubled,
the knots in his brow growing deeper,
Ezekiel shatters the heavenly calm.

“Humph . . . But this one, Jeremiah, forsook the fields of Lancaster.
Let the harvest go rotten, and left the barn empty.”

Jeremiah smiles, “He traveled far, he did. Yes, he did.” .

“He danced. He danced unashamed, a jiggy-bug.” Ezekiel snorts.

“I believe it be called a jitter-bug, Brother Ezekiel,” Jeremiah retorts,
casting a disapproving eye at his ageless brother.
Ezekiel lowers his head, silent.

An air of tranquility begins to resettle
amid the cumulus now drifting through the twilight.
Unruffled, Jeremiah squats on his hunches
curiously stirrin' the mist.
Ezekiel, on the other hand,
disturbs the lazy nebula with mounting agitation.

“What keeps our cousin? Perhaps, St. Peter put the quill to this name?”
Ezekiel wishing to quibble kicks at the icy dust particles. “Ye mark my words.”

“Go raise a barn, Ezekiel. I lose my patience with thee.
If ye be watchin’ instead of whining, ye’d know.
His grieving wife forgot his red socks. . . said he’ll not be crossin’
any bridge ‘till they fetch his red socks,
and put them on his cold feet. His travelin’ socks, he calls them.”

An uneasy silence, between the brothers lay,
but thank the Lord, it is soon
to be broken by a gay whistling,
for up from the path of the eternal bridge,
placing a gallant step on the cloud at his feet,
struts a merry figure, duffle bag in tow,
a curious and eager arrival.

“See, Ezekiel, here comes our cousin.
His socks be red, and he looks most willin' to come home.”

“Jeremiah, what tune could he be whistling. I recognize it not.”

“They call it My Way.”

“Written by which saint?”

“Sung by a gifted voice . . . perhaps to some a saint . . .” Jeremiah muses.
“The English called him Frank.
Ahhh!. . . . . Good day, to thee, cousin Dwight.
Ye have been missed. Welcome home!”


with my love
for Dwight W. Watson 1924-2003

Written some time ago for my father-in-law but I've never shared it before.

**********

Let me be
the storyteller.
Let me
weave
just for you
the rhythm of a beating heart,
visions too marvelous to behold,
and the delights of a gentle touch
in my poem.

In my poem

let me

compose

just for you
the power of thought,
the joy of laughter,
and the tears spent over a forsaken passion ...
for you
spun
by me
the storyteller.
Let it be.