Sending poetry to the world
he spoke to himself
with a soft slur like sand in the mouth.
his eyes rolled around in his head
like waves lapping the shore.
he tries to remember, but her face becomes the rings
around the hot island moon predicting the rains.
he pictures her lost on the horizon.
he punches the palm tree till his hands start to bleed.
for years alone, he knows only the coconut rum.
it stains his lips brown as his skin tans to leather.
he passes out
in the hot island sun. he snores
while dreaming of nothing.
Justin lays frozen
beneath a pile of oyster shells
on the slope of the hill
at the edge of the old graveyard behind
Calvert Hall and the church.
I press my hand
on the cold metal of his name and
continue the walk down gravel
to the frozen river, the shore dressed in white.
At the end, a tall wooden cross
guards the river. I lean against it,
steamy puffs of air rising
up with each shallow breath,
one gloved hand splintering wood.
I hear birds flapping their wings and water
clicking and clacking in a strained attempt
at escape. There, the frozen horizon; it
stretches far beyond my sight.
Spread wide, my arms north and south,
face pale and cold, cheeks ruddy
from light river breezes.
The songs of the Sunday
church choir come floating in my brain,
the ghosts on the hill with
their soft waves of whispers. I walk
closer to the water; I am now
closer to that compelling
that led Justin quiet from this life.
(Rip, Justin, April 30, 2001)
Seriously all over the place today, thinking about mortality in all ways. My parents got me a grey cat for my 11th birthday. She was the best~ and now, age 19, she is gone. For those animal lovers out there, you know how I’m feeling. Thinking all sorts of things. It is the end of an era. Goodbye Sassy cat.
Writing an Obituary
It is a clinical process:
I take the facts and look at them in their structure,
their organization.
I try to remember newspaper etiquette and to
include full name, date of birth,
date of death,
names of family who are left; names of family who are gone.
I am part of those still here, made especially clear
as I sit typing.
I am alone with my syntax; I am alone with
my gift for turning a phrase or placing a comma.
It is not enough.
It’s been two and a half years since a friend of mine was attacked in Baltimore a block from his house and a few blocks from where I was living at the time. His name was Zach Sowers, and the brutal attack from three teenagers sent him into a coma from which he would never return. It was a time of immense emotion, waiting, upheaval, anger that rippled across the city, thanks to Anna (his wife’s) tireless efforts to affect change in a city so adverse to it. This profoundly experienced the way I view the city, and the way I view life. You can read the full story at http://www.zachsowers.com/. I wrote more than a few poems throughout the time. These are two.
9 months
At 27,
I was walking home from the bars
late, to the house, to my wife of nine months, to our dog,
and then there were shadowy figures and darkness.
The pain was intense. I floated above myself
for nine long months, waiting. Then the pain disappeared.
The waiting is over. I’m with my ancestors
and my heart beats on
in the breast of my wife.
(RIP Zach 3/25/08)
Decision
You vomited blood like coffee grounds.
And I read these words
of an unexpected setback
in a quiet office that overlooks a long hall.
I wonder
about the statistical chances of God
existing to send you
a miracle; weighing the prayers of those around me
against all of that
Existential philosophy.
Later on tonight,
when I’m sleeping, I expect to see you in my dreams.
I expect you to say,
“Cheer up. It’s my decision.
I’ll either walk the hall back to you
or I’ll go the other way.”
He seemed embarrassed to call,
but now,
he clutches my hair painfully,
fistfuls of soft brown waves
twirled up and tangled in his white knuckle fists.
His head rests on my shoulder and
bobs gently in steady shakes.
I am crying,
but my tears are running down my throat
so he won’t feel them.
My hands pet his hair and face
like a mother and son
and I whisper nonsensical
like empathy is possible.
He is mumbling words,
prayers wet on my shirt,
for the friend in the backseat–
white sandy hair
bleached eyebrows
tanned legs
soft snores now permanent.
(r.i.p. dave hayes 2002)
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