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Heritage

I’ve never asked for anything
The living soil does not provide.
I don’t want cash; I don’t want bling;
I only want to stand beside

The footprints of departed fathers,
Now looking down through time and space
To see what son it is who bothers
To understand his proper place.

I never thought I’d be the one
To trace this legacy so late,
But I am not the only son
Who scorned the fare put on his plate.

The final stroke is all that matters
When winding down ancestral clocks,
And note how every sunbeam scatters
Off Avalon’s inviting docks.

.

.

The Old Gardener’s Garden

His yard looked like a highly touched-up scene
From Better Homes and Gardens magazine.
_I asked him what he did on Sundays.
_“I groom the corner where the nun prays.”
He pointed to a kneeling figurine
Half-hidden in a shaded swath of green,

Then showed me to a bench made out of teak
Where we sat down, and he began to speak:
_“It doesn’t take much effort to
_Enjoy the things that Nature grew,
But taking care of them involves some work,
As you’d expect in any thriving kirk,

And that’s what I’ve been sent down here to do.”
His claim to piety was nothing new,
_But I could tell he wasn’t kidding:
_He hustled off to do the bidding
Of some compelling supernatural force,
And I was asked to tag along, of course.

.

.

C.B. Anderson was the longtime gardener for the PBS television series, The Victory Garden.  Hundreds of his poems have appeared in scores of print and electronic journals out of North America, Great Britain, Ireland, Austria, Australia and India.  His collection, Mortal Soup and the Blue Yonder was published in 2013 by White Violet Press.

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3 Responses

  1. James A. Tweedie

    Vignettes; life story clippings that tell just enough to make a gentle point at the end. Smooth as river rock.

    “Heritage” also qualifies as being poignant, as it touches on both perusing and treasuring our personal and ofttimes tenuous ties to the past. It is up to us to preserve and pass them on lest they be lost forever.

    Entertaining and thought-provoking as always.

    Reply
    • C.B. Anderson

      River rocks fetch high prices these days, James, whether bought by the bag or by the truckload.

      “Heritage” also reconsiders the old question of what they will think of us when we are gathered to our fathers.

      Reply
  2. Margaret Coats

    The words of “Heritage” open many passageways. It moves from a farm or garden to stand alongside those footprints left behind, and gaze wonderingly into the future. In the center of the poem comes the question of knowing one’s proper place. Most of us trace the legacy late. I was just thinking yesterday of all my father had done for me, so much unappreciated at the time. But considering it all, his accomplishments now seem greater and his deficiencies fewer. The final stanza, flowing into English myth, transports this reader far and fast into wondering where Arthur’s funeral barge traveled to get to the supposed gravesite at Glastonbury. The sunbeams scatter without settling the matter. Excellent inconclusive conclusion.

    You must have learned a great deal, C. B., tagging along with old gardeners.

    Reply

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