Loss becomes more common
place next to years lived,
well and rightly,
left to grass covered hillocks
and gravestones.
I know now that kith and kin
includes the land as well as the relations
that one inherits in blood
and bone and breath
and love
and life,
the last time I thought about it,
includes losing those
both kith and kin
and I will end
with a small hillock of my own
of green grass and
the breath of wind,
well and rightly.
She lies in her bed,
well made of the soft earth,
caring nothing
of wars
or hunger
or sadness.
She lies comfortable,
spending
hours
days
weeks
considering the properties of rain
and how needy the roots of the young sapling.
She no longer hungers
but she is nourished
as she counts
months
years
centuries
and, oh, how lovely the sun looks
each time it rises over the ridge,
raising the tiny living grasses
to wave over her .
She smiles
easy in her bed.
***EMILY: “Does anyone ever realize life while they live it…every, every minute?”
STAGE MANAGER: “No. Saints and poets maybe…they do some.”― Thornton Wilder, Our Town
The family has come,
time to wrap up Old Bob’s life.
The bulldozer and bin will be delivered on Monday
to clear the last of the debris:
everything not given away
or sold.
Blessed are the poor in spirit..
Rummaging thru
the detritus of the dead-
sheds of rusted tools
and forgotten memories.
Blessed are those who mourn..
Silent windows
taped up,
one by one
Blessed are the meek..
Yard, dry and dusty,
witness
to the once bountiful garden, overgrown.
Blessed are those that hunger and thirst..
Weather has warmed
to the perfect late summer
blue sky
as the mementos of baseball glory
are placed in ordinary brown cartons.
Blessed are the merciful..
Last boxes of cards and balls
are loaded into the trunk
to be sold on Ebay
or stored in the basement
for the dust to settle
and remain.
Blessed are the pure in heart..
Boy of summer,
face browned as leather mitt
and smiles of a pitchers eye,
buried in last winter’s cold
off season.
Blessed are the peacemakers..
*** One of our neighbors, whom everyone called Old Bob, passed away last winter and his family is here this weekend to clear off the lot where he lived in his retirement from baseball. A big league pitcher, he was a character that we loved to visit and hear a few old stories of the gloried past. We miss him.
petals
shatter
one
day
daylily
a single day
an ephemeral beauty
a beautiful, ephemeral life
I am weary of death
his low whistle
in a minor key
has been heard too often at my door
I am ready to be relieved of his visits
I am so tired of tears
and the beautiful arrangements
of roses
and
all
the
beautiful
beautiful
lilies
an ephemeral beauty
a beautiful life
life
Love, Death or the Moon
Maybe it’s a wild hair
On that double helix
That someday, with chromosomal research,
And engineering,
The poetical urge will be revealed
Or maybe it’s an irregular
Firing of electrical charge
Across the wrinkled gray flesh
That with some new therapy
Can deduce the episodic rhymes and rhythms
And there’s always possible alien encounters
With stellar microwaves
That fitting your cap with aluminum foil
Could focus all expressive versifying insights
Not physical, perhaps spiritual
Voices of angels whispering
In waiting ears
Touch of the Deity
To spark gloried inspiration
That can only be rendered
In couplets and sonnets
Maybe its moments
That are just
More
Awake Real Aware Stunning Moving Lovely Horrible Sad Wonderful Horrific Astonishing
And the only possible response
Is a poem
About love, death or the crescent moon
thecourseofourseasons 