24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
“I’ll put her in the earth myself” (Lasher, Anne Rice)
Were the very lasts words uttered
I never understood why she stopped there
The ghostly beings in attendance were unaware
As were the ethereal souls
Had they known how close they were
I believe it would have mattered
So, I will let you go this last time
Down deep in the dirt
But,as always, I will bring you back
Because you don’t belong there.
I don’t think I have any family that’ll survive the test of time
so I will write as if I’m writing to a stranger.
I suppose I am anyways,
but I digress.
I was not happy.
Not in life, not in career.
I was not a happy man.
The world is a large place brimming with zest and opportunity.
But everyone everywhere is finding a different battle to fight,
a new person to argue with,
a place to desecrate.
What did I ever have to be happy about?
There was a time where I had love,
hope,
dreams.
But how many beatings can one person take.
No physical bruises, but I’ve been told you can see
it in my eyes.
The dimness.
I’m a fractured person.
I gave parts of me to everyone I ever loved.
Some pieces were ripped off of me by people I
never even got the chance to fully know.
And I don’t blame them,
I think they were trying to find a piece of me that
would patch over a hole that existed
in them.
Broken people picking through the scraps,
a patchwork quilt of those we’ve loved
and lost,
those who view us as a means to an end,
or do not think about us much.
I don’t think anyone will think of me for much longer,
let alone think of me during the time this message sits underground.
But maybe you’re a new family, come here to make
your life.
Maybe you’re digging up the yard to put in a pool, or
some new plants.
I love dahlias, so maybe you can plant some of those.
I always meant to plant them myself.
Whoever you are, don’t let me be a forgotten whisper in
this world.
Let me be a ghost in your life.
You can make up some silly story to tell your kids,
if you have those.
In the afterlife, I won’t do anything cruel or scary.
I know it’s a lot to ask,
but maybe haunting your life
is the closest I will ever get
to heaven.
Upon Death
On 24th December my father died.
We were expecting his death
But on the day he took his leave
He had his breakfast, and soup
for supper, went to the toilet by himself.
In the evening he was uncomfortable
The doctor came and wanted him
To be admitted to hospital
‘You can’t do that
He needs to stay with his family’
And he stayed.
My brother and I stayed by his side
And read the Bhagvad Geeta to him
Don’t know if he listened or understood
Early morning – he just stopped breathing
We waited for his breath to resume
But it never did – such is the nature of death.
My two children came to take Nana’s leave
My son brought him his ‘glows in the dark’ toy
Put it on his pillow and kissed him.
My daughter brought her Rag doll
Florence, and laid her tenderly on his side –
This is to keep him company as
He is going a long, long way away.
We kissed him one by one and
said our Goodbyes after all
Death is a part of life
It comes to us all.
—————
Sundar
Is it suitable to say
I’ve been here before?
The fur covered sheets line
the same human envelope
I was shipped in. Where will I
be forwarded next? Tumble dry me
with first editions by tossing
me in and not dragging me out until
I’m no kinder to this language
than I ever was. Carol Ann
would be proud and disgusted.
Wrinkles here, wrinkles there,
Squishy skin pops up everywhere.
Age is stamping all over me.
Wrinkles from the laughter,
Those ones I will take,
That turkey neck can go however,
But pile on the cake!
Go grey or try to dye it,
Why do I have to choose,
Leave my hair in all its glory, what do I have to lose?
You’ve been here
You’ve been scared
You’ve been uncomfortable
Take a breath
You’re hurting
You’re lonely
You’re anxious
Take a breath
It will pass
it will heal
It will heal
Take a breath
You’ll be okay
– from the image –
Your plan to escape,
was thwarted by the wheels of Fate;
For songs are capsules of memory,
and you find her,
in every melody.
Souls speak in stillness —
every silence is loud,
Beneath distractions,
every whisper,
is your hearts voice;
All too proud
to proclaim,
the love you put to shame
As you run through your day,
seeking new forms of play…
Not yet … he said
The time is not right
The earth is unaligned
The sacred path unknown
Dreams come
From beyond the wall of separation
Incursions of the dead
Seeking freedom
Shapeshifters
Dragons
Walking among the living
Their destination … Earthsea
I spend much of my time walking in large circles, lollipop shapes, back and forth—on streets, on trails, on old logging roads, through the woods, past gardens, up to views, and back again. Though I move, I accomplish nothing.
At home I bake—bread, muffins, cakes, apple crisps, cinnamon rolls. My projects come daily or weekly. I love the moment my creation comes out of the oven, the aroma, the joy and gratitude from my beloved. But everything soon disappears.
And then I talk, often hours a day, on the phone, in person, or on a walk. Sometimes the others need a listening ear more than anything. Others we joke, discuss ideas, commiserate about fears, check in about health and happiness.
In these two years since retirement, it seems I’ve done little, created no legacy, moved to no second or third act. I have only miles walked and forgotten, bread crumbs dusting the counters, and thousands of words vanishing into the past.
I am not alone.
As Zadie Smith says, “Watching this manic desire to make or grow or do ‘something,’ that now seems to be consuming everybody, I do feel comforted to discover I’m not the only person on this earth who has no idea what life is for, nor what is to be done with all this time aside from filling it.”*
*From “Something to Do” in Intimations by Zadie Smith. Penguin Books. 2020.
The lake’s east side has become neglect
An untamed field yields to a bulldozer
A week ago there was a riot of
thistles and queen anne’s lace, but
now even the mud is tired
Noon time heat siphons any magic
the developer forgot, but lots are
still for sale with great schools and
easy access to the interstate