If you were here
and warm,
I would inhale
your breath,
hold your spirit
in my lungs
and become
young again.
  - mce

imagine if you will
a piece of handmade paper
heavy but fine grained

and upon the piece
of ivory coloured paper
delicate hues of green,
and blue,
placed in an abstract way
using water colour paints

the paper having been wet
no longer lays flat on the table
but undulates, with small hills
and valleys

and upon that piece of paper
artfully decorated
imagine some words, written
in a round and beautiful cursive
formed by an old fountain pen
the ink used, a deep purple
that has been softened by years
the words, are those of young love,

yet to be tested by time
yet to be tested by seperation
yet to be tested by loss


the paper is old now, set with
four creases from where it had
been folded and left within a book
of wordsworth...


on the front fold, the following
To Mary with much love Jack. 1915

and upon that piece of paper
handmade, delicately decorated
inscribed with love and hope,
the beginnings of a family rested.

Some years ago, I begged for firmament,
a lasting place of honor in your skies.
As days of disappointment came and went,
I learned forever's promises are lies.
Still fighting finite life, impermanence,
this chunk of astral rock would never learn
time's atmosphere is entered only once,
and we glow, white and screaming as we burn.

The cold of space interred within my bones
means any source of warmth is welcomed now,
including immolation.  
                                         Had I known
the entropy our years on earth allow,
a reckless plunge would sanction fiery end:
The shooting star is blessed and not condemned.

~

beside a warm fire on a late winter's morn,
with the help of three midwives their baby was born.
wrapping him gently to shield from morn's frost,
hearing his first breaths while holding him close.
singing a lullaby, they rock him to sleep;
cradled in their arms, they watch him dream.

twenty five winters; good years, though some long,
as a man was being forged in their little boy.
in many ways wise, encourager and friend,
the tenderest heart, persevering to the end.
through illness, through setbacks, he always believed;
and opening their arms they watch him dream.

beside a warm fire on a late winter's morn,
alone with the angels their son was re-born.
closing his eyes as he lay down to dream,
his last breath watched lovingly, he drifted to sleep.
then carried so gently to a new home above,
to awake in the arms of the many he'd loved.

today by the fire on this mid-winter's morn,
they find themselves still letting go of their son.
surrounded by memories wherever they gaze,
this earth seems clouded, though they see through its haze.
they find themselves longing for their loved one above,
and dreaming of holding this son that they love.

~

post script.

written in January of 2011, two years after his goodbye.  dusted off just a bit this morning with a few of its wrinkles ironed just for posting.  

this time of winter, these cold, blustery days with blue skies overhead, it seems to bring the out melencholy. might be its time to head out to one of his favorite trails not too far from here... maybe we,'ll try the Columbia Gorge's Eagle Creek trail up to Punchbowl Falls... he loved it out there away from the city.

Steve

I found her again;  she was weeping snow
into the gaping mouth below.
Our very fabric was weeping too.
From the top of it's tooth I sat there drawing.
Then:
I awoke with my pen ( what manic scrawling).

We sit, screaming secrets that speed through the highways;and from our finger tips we cry out our hearts. We Spill'm across those highways, till languished love arrives at our recipients doors.  They sit and reply in kind. It’s a whole lot of blood, for such little time.

We’d sent each other fifty messages in five minutes, and, although my heart was typing for me, I felt that every word was worthless. Just like each one of these: I want to talk in ink. I want to wield a pen that men will fear, respect and pay heed to. But, here these words appear from buttons bashed by boredoms fingers; the madness of mind renegade.

I guess the thought doesn't count anymore.