Al Hansen
Well-known member
I posted this back in 2010.
For all of the dads in this world----I hope this day is a special one just for you! Happy Father's Day!
Solitude
I walked a forest path today,
Along the shore of some forgotten lake
Far in the north, where breeze-borne wavelets play
Upon a lonely beach, and all around,
A primal silence reigns, unreal, sublime.
Here, no traffic’s din, the only sound
The sighing of the wind amid the pines,
The gentle fluttering that leaves of poplar make
When stirred to movement by a vagrant breeze.
Across the lake the morning mists still lay,
Yet half disclosed a long, low line of trees;
While here, around the shallow margin of a bay,
A myriad purple-flowered spikes upstood,
And nodded gaily to each passing wave.
Faintly I heard, from far across the lake,
The ghostly laughter of a solitary loon,
And from the dark recesses of the wood,
The oft-repeated carol of a bird.
These were, indeed, the only sounds I heard
From misty dawn to sunny afternoon,
Save for the warning chatter squirrels made,
When startled by he presence of a man.
My feet sank deep into the forest mould
Of countless fallen leaves...since time began
Pressed into earth by winter snows and summer rains;
While at my side, in deepest woodland shade,
A dark-green carpet, fresh from nature’s loom,
Of inch-deep moss upon that floor was laid,
And here and there, from out the forest gloom,
Rose showy mushrooms, yellow, mauve, blood-red,
Like jewels upon a velvet cloth displayed.
And once, within a golden patch of sun,
A forest nymph-an errant butterfly-
Paused briefly to display her hidden charms,
Opened and closed her wings, and then was gone.
O might such peace and beauty never pass!
The breathless wonder of a sylvan lake,
The pristine solitude that all men crave,
And yet, in ignorance, destroy, alas!
Lyndon E. Hansen
(Northern Wisconsin August 7th, 1982)
On August 7th, of 1982, I decided to take my 8 year old son, Grant, and my dad, up to a small lake in northern Wisconsin to do some fishing. I rented a row boat and then asked my father if he wanted to go with. He looked at me and said, “I think I’ll just sit along the shore with my back up against a tree and watch you two.” Dad was always prepared because he had his camera with him and small notebook for writing if he wanted to. My son and I had a good time fishing and of course on our way home he told grandpa all about the big fish he caught.
It was April 7th, 1991, when we had just returned from church that the phone rang and I was notified that my father had just passed away. I rushed to the assisted living area that he resided in. When I was in his room I happened to notice a “Post-it note” on a piece of paper. It said, “Skip, this is for you.” He knew he was going to die and had this poem all neatly hand-written in eloquent script, placed on his bed side table.
During these past 25 years, I couldn't begin to tell you the number of days that I have had a conversation with my dad. It might have been but one thing on a particular day, like seeing a full moon rise above the eastern horizon showing off its beauty. Another day it might have been a dove taking a drink at our pond when I said, "Dad, do you see its reflection in the water? What a beautiful bird! Thanks for everything you gave me in life. I love you."
For all of you out there that still have your fathers, I hope that on this special day you can give him a big hug. Make sure you take the time to tell your dad how much you love him.
Al
For all of the dads in this world----I hope this day is a special one just for you! Happy Father's Day!
Solitude
I walked a forest path today,
Along the shore of some forgotten lake
Far in the north, where breeze-borne wavelets play
Upon a lonely beach, and all around,
A primal silence reigns, unreal, sublime.
Here, no traffic’s din, the only sound
The sighing of the wind amid the pines,
The gentle fluttering that leaves of poplar make
When stirred to movement by a vagrant breeze.
Across the lake the morning mists still lay,
Yet half disclosed a long, low line of trees;
While here, around the shallow margin of a bay,
A myriad purple-flowered spikes upstood,
And nodded gaily to each passing wave.
Faintly I heard, from far across the lake,
The ghostly laughter of a solitary loon,
And from the dark recesses of the wood,
The oft-repeated carol of a bird.
These were, indeed, the only sounds I heard
From misty dawn to sunny afternoon,
Save for the warning chatter squirrels made,
When startled by he presence of a man.
My feet sank deep into the forest mould
Of countless fallen leaves...since time began
Pressed into earth by winter snows and summer rains;
While at my side, in deepest woodland shade,
A dark-green carpet, fresh from nature’s loom,
Of inch-deep moss upon that floor was laid,
And here and there, from out the forest gloom,
Rose showy mushrooms, yellow, mauve, blood-red,
Like jewels upon a velvet cloth displayed.
And once, within a golden patch of sun,
A forest nymph-an errant butterfly-
Paused briefly to display her hidden charms,
Opened and closed her wings, and then was gone.
O might such peace and beauty never pass!
The breathless wonder of a sylvan lake,
The pristine solitude that all men crave,
And yet, in ignorance, destroy, alas!
Lyndon E. Hansen
(Northern Wisconsin August 7th, 1982)
On August 7th, of 1982, I decided to take my 8 year old son, Grant, and my dad, up to a small lake in northern Wisconsin to do some fishing. I rented a row boat and then asked my father if he wanted to go with. He looked at me and said, “I think I’ll just sit along the shore with my back up against a tree and watch you two.” Dad was always prepared because he had his camera with him and small notebook for writing if he wanted to. My son and I had a good time fishing and of course on our way home he told grandpa all about the big fish he caught.
It was April 7th, 1991, when we had just returned from church that the phone rang and I was notified that my father had just passed away. I rushed to the assisted living area that he resided in. When I was in his room I happened to notice a “Post-it note” on a piece of paper. It said, “Skip, this is for you.” He knew he was going to die and had this poem all neatly hand-written in eloquent script, placed on his bed side table.
During these past 25 years, I couldn't begin to tell you the number of days that I have had a conversation with my dad. It might have been but one thing on a particular day, like seeing a full moon rise above the eastern horizon showing off its beauty. Another day it might have been a dove taking a drink at our pond when I said, "Dad, do you see its reflection in the water? What a beautiful bird! Thanks for everything you gave me in life. I love you."
For all of you out there that still have your fathers, I hope that on this special day you can give him a big hug. Make sure you take the time to tell your dad how much you love him.
Al
