• Son, son of Mother

    From David Dalton@21:1/5 to All on Sat Sep 25 17:55:56 2021
    XPost: alt.buddha.short.fat.guy, alt.religion.buddhism.tibetan, alt.religion.buddhism
    XPost: alt.philosophy.taoism, alt.religion.hindu

    On Sep 24, 2021, David Dalton wrote on alt.religion.druid
    (in article<0001HW.26FD8B9B0009A4F070000C84F38F@news.eternal-september.org>):

    Many celebrated Mabon at Sept. 20 full moon or Sept. 22
    fall equinox but I am celebrating it for a full week,
    from Sept. 20 full moon to Sept. 26, which is the
    saint day (death day) of my mother (and
    Mabon ap Modron means Son, son of Mother).

    According to
    http://www.holidays-and-observances.com/september-25.html
    today is Fish Amnesty Day. :-)

    According to
    http://www.holidays-and-observances.com/september-26.html
    tomorrow is Priesthood Sunday.

    September 26, 1965 was also a Sunday, and was the
    day that my mother died in front of me when I was
    about 1.5 years old. The Buddha’s mother also
    died early in his life and the same is said to be true
    of all buddhas, according to https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maya_(mother_of_the_Buddha)

    And then there is the following poem by my sister Mary,
    where the priest in question was a Father Howard but
    I guess I could also be considered a sort of priest,
    initiated by nature.

    the priest

    was plump
    belly like a soft-boiled egg
    face of salt beef
    red with fat and indignation--
    Humpty Dumpty with a white collar

    large in pulpits.
    after John's love, or Mark's,
    raved of money
    named who gave--
    how much--
    shamed
    men with broken nails,
    calluses
    born of net, axe, and shovel;
    women bowed over
    child-bearing and buckets and bread

    thinking, perhaps, of him
    the women died on Sundays,
    after child-birth and rosaries
    after Mass and Sunday dinner

    one alder-red Sunday
    one more woman
    missed the blueberry-picking, the picnic,
    slid to the canvas floor
    unhanding
    the enamel wash pan,
    the seventh surviving baby
    wriggling in its suds

    he was soon on the spot--
    a bad apple--
    to settle the issue
    his Christly way
    his coin-temple cool:
    "oh yes she's dead all right--“
    might've been an insect,
    a plant, a boat,
    some amoeba

    two-bit Jeremiah,
    didn't know his doings--
    did God's work--
    vicious, he freed us
    from institution's yoke

    and there is also this poem by Mary in memory of our mother
    Ellen (Nell):

    G R A C E
    _i.m. E.J.D._

    She is at home
    In a room
    Or a poem. In alcoves
    Angling a fuschia
    For last rays of sun.
    Gauging the heft
    Of image and vowel.

    In her house,
    Chairs welcome
    Space, form to pour in,
    And windows, wordless, widen,
    Avenues,
    Allowing the light.

    So anyway if some stuff is not on I hope it will be by
    the time the morning sun comes in through my window
    tomorrow morning, and that the new age will begin
    tomorrow.

    --
    David Dalton dalton@nfld.com https://www.nfld.com/~dalton (home page) https://www.nfld.com/~dalton/dtales.html Salmon on the Thorns (mystic page) “‘You could lay down your head by a sweet river bed/But Sonny
    always remembers what it was his Mama said” (Ron Hynes)

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