Father’s Touch
I’m always looking for opportunities to collaborate with other artists. The creative awakening that has happened in me over the last twelve months makes me prone to explode creative sauce all over anyone who talks to me. I’m finding that longing awakens longing. I know a lot of creative people who are in a similar stage of life — and it turns out, many of them are dying for an outlet. That’s the thing about creatives. We want to create, and the longing remains, a soft humming beneath our busy lives. It waits to be acknowledged and activated.
My family stayed with our good friends in Phoenix last week. Phoenix in October is glorious. The sun bites down on you, hard, and I love it. I took many moments to just close my eyes right into the sun; let the soft orange warmness engulf my face. My buddy, Matt, is a talented painter and sketch artist. He took me into his garage — a well ordered miracle of a space — and showed me some of his work. One of his pieces was a graphite rendering of multiple hands in different positions. It instantly made me think of one of my poems, Father’s Touch, which is a treasured ode to my father. So, we bring you this collaboration of visual art and poetry.
My encouragement to you, creative reader, is to partake in the joy of creative collaboration with others. Ask your friends these questions — “How do you express your creativity?” “What is the most satisfying way that you are able to express yourself?” Then stand back and get ready for the show. Nearly everyone I know has some creative outlet. And nearly everyone I know is secretly chomping at the bit to talk about it with another creative. Be prepared to share their joy. And then be willing to take it a step further and actually do something together. You won’t regret it.
Also, a shout out to Matt — keep creating! You were an inspiration to me this week. I’m looking forward to more collaborations.
Artwork by: Matt Redder
Poem by: Johnny Levy
Father's Touch
I was an asthmatic kid
And when I got sick
It was like breathing through
A wet afro in my windpipe.
The panic, the agony,
My own lungs
Strangling me.
Will the next breath
Happen? Can't think like that.
Just keep breathing,
Like heaving thousand pound rocks
With my chest.
And my father was
A workin' man, tall and
Black and full of muscles
White smile crooked
As a gentle hustle.
He lived outside the edges
Of real life
In a land of myth and legend;
Black belt superhero.
One night I was in bed
Wheezing in dim light
That spilled in from the living room of
Adult voices and murmured
Thunder.
And my Dad drifted in from work
Late night mahogany angel
Sat on my bed,
Laid his hand on my chest,
And in this memory,
I can't see his face
Or make out his words
Of murmured thunder
But I know they are kind
Words, my son, my son
Breathe.
And my eyelashes
Stretch the light
Behind his head
Into pins and needles
Blades of brilliance
A halo of radiance
Surrounding
His shadowed face
His hallowed face
Hand heavy on my chest.
Warm as sunrise, heavy as Gold.
And if you ask me
What does Father mean?
I paint you this portrait
Lovingly. And with tears.
Father means:
The one who
Comes down from the land
Of myth and legend
And murmured thunder
Splits the sky asunder and
Suddenly appears next to you
In a moment of wonder
Like Jesus Christ on a park bench
Comes to you.
In a strange and magical moment.
Fact and fiction mixture
Heartbeat whisper and deep wind
Tussles soul grass --
*Reality shivers*
BEHOLD.
A callused, heavy hand
With veins like Nile rivers
Slides through the cracks
Between heaven and earth
Descends and comes to rest
Heavy on Your chest;
And it's a radical intersection
Between golden streets and sick frail lungs
And god-like fathers and asthmatic sons.
And this mechanic's hand
Blackened, fissured, warm touch
Knuckles like knots of oak
Palm scratchy as corn husk,
I can feel it right now
Right there on my chest
The shape of comfort;
The heft of rest.
My Father's hands
Reveal God to me.
Hidden down deep
In the fissures and cracks
Blazing secrets in arroyos of black
God who gives us fathers.
And their hands as a metaphor.
And their distance
And sudden closeness
Makes us listless
For more.
And this world is full of asthmatic sons
In breathless need of the Father’s touch
The hand of our God that holds in its palm
The heft of all creation;
And all beauty in the world
And all mystery, passionate
Heart-cry of eternity
On your chest
Feel the press
Feel the burgeoning
To enter your heart
Like a spear, like a blade
Like a brand new start.
Like a gardening spade.
And He's close now
Feel His breath
On your eyelids
And it's Father, it's
Murmured thunder;
Raw, ferocious love
The terror and the wonder
The budding flower
And the burning sun
The yearning One
Who could wither you
In less than a blink
And you'd be done.
Your whole life like a twig
Between His finger and thumb.
And He’s beautiful
And He’s dangerous
And we lie here
Wheezing broken ones
Too weak to stand
Much less to run.
And a voice like thunder
Splits the sky and reaches down with palms ablaze and with one gesture
Calms the waves that shudder through these broken lungs.
Rolls away the stone that sits
Upon the coffin of our chest
And beckons us to rise and rest
My son
My son
I Am
Your breath.
