I Dream My Father's Origins (Posting for Father's Day, written in March 2022)

 

I Dream My Father's Origins

Everything glows golden

until the olives age. Then,

sage bushes burst

into myriad branches of

deep dark greenery's

fragrance in the rain.

 

The bumblebee flees

to its hive to hide and stay dry. 

It's a simple swoosh of thought 

that ought to make us want to hug

the sun we must not fly too close to, 

lest we lose the Tuscan castle

 

stones of  Castelvecchio.

 

and then flee back to Greece.

 

Almost light, almost heaven, yet oddly

somewhat dark, is the noon sun

 

  hidden, though not unknown

 among the path of alley shadows,

 

not quite high enough is 

 

the castle tower that leans to look

down to its babbling brook 

few ever heard or drank from.

 

 

Cascading down the mountain

 

comes the history of my father/s father,

 

a land almost forgotten and untouched

 

by contemporary hands that stand

aside the other lands from whence the gladiators came

 

 and settled. One, two, three and three hundred survivors,

 

that say, We have arrived well, in wellness,

 

so very not many, says the legend, molto no,

 

that welcomed one another: Benvenuto!

And to this day when welcomed 

 

at my father's door or table, and it is usually both,

with deep red wine, with light yellow-sounding song,

 

my father's eyes smile wide and happy and sad.

 

Hello, Joe! Someone is always joyfully arriving.

 

Yes the Tuscan sunflowers shine

so golden yellow in the sun, 

and so rich the food 

and rich the Tuscan arts of Florence,

 

things movies are made of, 

 

a place to which some people escape,

 

most  forlorn but still hopeful.

 

Those who know the history of

 

the town seldom speak of it

 

outside the little Ten Castella.

 

But they are very funny

 

and they tell a lot of jokes.

 

I must go meet my cousins!  

 

O, auguri, mia Castelvecchio,

mia alto città I amore, 

 

mia affascinante castello.

 

 

Bennisimo, dal Benci's è Bencivenga's,

 

è Bencivengo's, my grandfather's people. 

 

Un girasole è un girasole è un girasole

 

(a sunflower is a sunflower is a sunflower)

 

  con qualsiasi altro nome

 

(by any other name).

 

*

 

 My father died with an enlarged heart

 

as did his mother before him

 

because his heart grew too big for this life in this world. 

 

 

--M. Bencivengo, March 2022

mbenci.writes@gmail.com