this is an excerpt from a very long, (shudder) private poem about a dinner party with visiting friends, up from Memphis to celebrate their birthday in NYC.
Unplanned, I gave them all gifts without hesitation from an unusual collection of mine that they were admiring.
When questioning my unexpected generosity, by way of explanation, I jokingly said
"there is no room in my casket."
~
sweetly thanked for the unexpected gift,
the poet replies comically,
"there is no more room in his casket",
for even these, small trifles
later in the quietude of
late night contemplation,
comes a greater realization,
the truth was unseen
in his offhanded remark,
now, gives him pause and cause
to capture a greater revelation
there is insufficient room indeed,
for accompanying the poet on his finale,
an uncharted encore voyage akin to
Tennyson's poem of
the famed voyage of Ulysses -
thoughts yet unthought,
a few thousand poems,
that time forbade completion,
all must yet reside beside and inside his soul,
timed-released escapees
from the real yet artificial limits of
physical deterioration
these,
be his boon companions in arms,
his banded-brothered company,
purposed for inspiration,
his lasting re-actualization
so plentiful, indeed,
there be no room in the casket,
for the merely beloved,
beautiful physical objets d'art,
they too must give way
to the natural law of
"unto dust returned"
but poetry
*never dies