Culture's Core

I recall now, so very clearly
as evening clings like tapestry,
a distant time when i was small
and loved to creep along the wall
toward the circle cast by light
where elders talked, among themselves, into the night.

They filled the room with stirring tales, as I--
in my pajamas with the little feet--would lie
behind the outsized chair, hair pressed to rung,
listening invisibly, 'til wakened by the hug
of arms that cradled me 'round knee and head
and placed me back in sagging bed.

They told their stories,
one by one, of hardships suffered, and of glories--
times endured, evils feared,
stunning triumphs engineered
by luck, effort, patience, cunning,
and those who saved themselves by running.

I remember, too, the sagas told
about the turning points in growing old
amidst the tempests once withstood,
and tender details of first kisses, which were good
for waves of jokes and laughter
that I scarcely understood 'til after
i had aged, and learned of love affairs,
and private things that people do in pairs.

So now, like sages who have been and done,
who've told their tales of favors lost and won,
I primp my heirs with stories from my youth
of the vainglorious pursuits of truth,
justice, and the 'Merican way,
'til a still small voice can guide, I pray,
the journey forth where only they may go,
toward a promised land, which I will never know.

Thus repeats the simple lore
of passion, pleasure, pain and pride
that marks us all, deep down inside,
as humans with a common core.

--Myron W. Lustig