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Goretti Publications

A Poet on his Father

Donald P. Goodman III

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This is not "free verse"! A note on alliterative poetry.

Hear! The herald of him now speaks who lays beneath; in love he lived; in serving his sons and his wife he sought the good of the Goodmans God gave to his charge. He lived till death to donate his life to those who depended on Dad; till death his truth to his troth did not waver; I tell the glory that's Goodman, which this man did grab; his ancestor's honor, which from ancient times gave glory to the great name of Goodman; his life gave tribute to that tow'ring troth; it told of service to something beyond the salt seas, beyond e'en the lands beyond that; beyond the reach of the realm of the world. So rich this man thought he was; for his wife was a woman and his sons were men, and they meant to maintain the name that he, too, helped to make. Not noise nor battle nor winds nor battering beasts could sever his service to father and son. But where now this father? To where has he fared? His warmth has departed, his life has now passed. For even such men must be mortal; e'en men with his goodness must go 'fore the glory of God to be judged. Once joyful, cheerful and jolly, now clothed in dirt; now cold and dead, the sons who so pleased him now sobbing their pleas to the God who made Goodmans to give him to life. So hear! I, his son and his herald, bid hark to the words which my weeping addressed past the world for the father who fought and lay dead, that the Father whom he and I share might have mercy on him, whose love for his family was like the great Father's Whose Son on the mountain was murdered by men so his brothers might live unto life. O Lord! have mercy on him in your all-hallowed halls and remember my tears, and my troth which I took from the sinner who stands at your seat. Your own Son once wept for Lazarus, and his weeping, Lord, brought mercy on man; so my mother now weeps; so also his sons are now seeking your sentence for mercy on Goodman, whose goodness you made. So hear! Now his herald beseeches, bids hark to his plea to the people who hear now this poem which he writes for the father who wrought such good works. Please pray for my father for freedom from purging; pay service to the tears of his son in his sorrow and beg the Lord God to the glory of life that this man be admitted. And may it e'er be; over ages, eternity, eons, all time, to the sounding of the last age of men. Soothly.