Aging

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Winter Strains

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God of all generations,
in silence I hear your voice
echoing forth from deepest recesses
where flesh dances with spirit
and is suckled by mysteries divine.

It awakens in me a familiar longing–
a hunger for rest and peace
and refuge from angry, counter winds
that shake and rattle an aging heart
still struggling to be free.

And in night’s pause, yet I am courted
by promise of fire and light,
by treasure eager to be discovered
as gift for those who seek your love,
as love you gift to all.

It is the season, now, for deepest truths;
for surrendering fancy and fad;
for transcending hurts that bind and smother;
and listening carefully above the din
for the song that leads me home,
the timeless song of home.

© 2005 Dennis Ference

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An Old Man Stands in Awe


   How majestic is your name in all the
        earth!
                                                   Psalm 8:2

Lord, sometimes when I gaze
   at the sky,
time, which in these later years,
has come to move so quickly,
seems, all of a sudden,
to stand perfectly still.
And for just a moment
I rest at the edge
of endless possibilities,
and I am awed by the wonder
of all that has come forth
as gift from your hands.

How majestic the mountains,
how lush the carpets of green!
How powerful the moving waters,
how graceful the billowy clouds!
How vast the varieties of
   living creatures,
how splendid their mingling
   and mix!

And as part of all this glory,
here I stand with my brothers
   and sisters,
richly blessed
to know something about you,
privileged to discover
that we come from your love
to share in the spirit
that makes things to be.

How great are you
beyond all I can imagine!
How graced are we
whom you have made your own!

by Dennis Ference

© 2000 Liguori Publications

Taken from Psalm Prayers for Seniors by Dennis Ference. Available from Liguori Publications, Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Itunes, and other ebook sources.

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Suffering

In these later years I’ve tried
for a transparent relationship
with suffering—
surely I don’t desire it
nor do I yet fully accept it
but for now at least
I make an effort
to ride with it
without passing it on
to all who share my space.

© 2015 Dennis Ference

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Father and Son

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(Written several years ago when my father came from a distant
state to reside in the nursing home where I worked at that time.)

I did not know him as a son
hopes to know a father.
That was my thought as
I laid him to rest
in his new bed and circumstances
at the nursing home
in which I labor
for daily bread and respect.

Though present throughout my childhood,
it was an impression of absence he
   bequeathed,
relinquishing to mother
the dispensation of love and direction
and other childhood necessities.
And in her compliant shadow I grew
with no expectations of him,
only those secret longings
I could not name.

Now, he and his need,
with a minimum of warning,
have erased plotted distances
to reenter my life
like a dull thud,
disturbing what had been
a satisfying harmony
between family, job and benign
expectations for tomorrow.
And in a moment I taste it–
resentment flavored with
just a sliver of gratitude
for this intrusion
               into
complacency.

© 1998 Dennis Ference
(First published in America.)

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Rhett (R.I.P. ~ 7/28/15)

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(For many, the love of a pet lights
a pathway to the Spirit. For that and all
you have meant to your family, Rhett,
thank you and rest in peace!)

He didn’t really like dogs—
at least that’s what he always
insisted to anyone who cared
to listen. Yet when his son’s
mutt would stand before him,
staring with black marble eyes,
tongue loosely flapping
with canine shivers, he never failed
to rub the dog’s head, stroke
under his jaw, pat his side,
scratch behind his ear.
And once in awhile when no one
was paying attention, and Rhett
lay some feet away, the old man would
softly snap his fingers, hand nearly
brushing the floor, and the dog
would come sit by his side
and patiently wait for him
to renew their tenuous affair.

© 2006 Dennis Ference
(Poem first posted 8/4/14.)

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Pot of Gold

(Compassion is a salve with
power to heal our souls.)

She was the brightest star
in his darkest night,
first child of his youngest;
and though their stories
intersected in earnest
but a short time ago,
it was clear to all that
she now owned his heart.

Her visits straightened
his spine and swelled
his chest; and when she
kissed his bristly cheek and
intoned, I love you, Grandpa,
he heard again the old music
to which he once hummed and
danced an occasional
impromptu jig.
He decided to give her a gift,
though his station didn’t allow
for much: eighty-six, withering
parts, strangled assets, wringing
out his days in a home with
a hundred more like him.

But he hatched a plan,
executed it with equal parts
stealth and constancy,
and, when her next visit
was winding down,
anxiously steered her
to his dresser, splayed
the contents of his sock drawer
like Moses parting the Red Sea,
and removed a popcorn sack
with 49 packets of sugar
pilfered from the dining room:
breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

She received the gift
with a pooling in her eyes,
a thrumming in her heart,
and love for the old man
anchoring deep within
her soul.

Returning home
she carefully opened
the packets as in a sacred
rite and emptied them into
her grandmother’s sugar bowl,
bequeathed, shelved, and patient,
perhaps, for a day such as this.
She brewed a cup of tea,
sweetened it slowly,
and pondered how fortunate
she was to have stumbled upon
her own rainbow lavishly spilling
into a pot of gold.

© 2009 Dennis Ference

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At 65

(Our own reality is often starved
for our acceptance and love.)

He stares at him:
the man in the mirror–
the face indelibly marked
by time’s unrelenting crusade:
crown sparsely feathered;
beard coarse and grizzled;
brows sprouting feelers,
defiant and brash.

Their eyes lock for a moment
in the silence that grieves;
but still he resists concession,
still he withholds
the compassionate nod.

© 2009 Dennis Ference