Son, son of Mother

[David Dalton]

On Sep 24, 2021, David Dalton wrote on alt.religion.druid
(in article<0001HW.26FD8B9B00...@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 dal...@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)