(I love) Dignity

tearing words apart,
a part
of  a joy I cannot
explain or share exactly

knew a man once,
forty two years gone,
died too soon enough,
soon enough,
he and I will be
the same age

this man
a duck out of water,
a stranger in an adopted land,
trouble-stooped, a hard life, well lived,
never bent,
dignified in every step

I cannot remember him
ever kissing me, tousling my hair,
holding my hand, loving me in
a manner I wanted beyond  desperately

yet here I am, 5:22 am
weeping tears recalling him
in glimpses long ago seen,
adding them all up to get a
single sum

Dignity.

tearing words apart,
a part
of a joy I cannot/explain,
share precisely

dig
in
to
my
chambered memory storage units,
unlocking those rusted locks with freshly oiled
tears
and loving the dignity he exampled

to the son he could not kiss, hand hold,
but taught him the one lesson, digging deep
to respect life and stand apart,
stand with dignity.

all else will follow

the son kissed his children plenty,
in a vain attempt to make up his missed
homework

now the grandfather,
now the grandfather
is still kissing
his last hope, his newest babes,
rolling on the floor,
so silly kissing belly buttons,
smelling their skin repeatedly,

in a manner most
undignified

still weeping
the son,
he tries to sort it out

and forgives and does not forget
the man that taught dignity
in everything,
even, especially,
in slow dying,

forty two years is a long time to wait
to weep.

it takes two hands in the dark
repeatedly
to collect all the waiting patiently
wetness and the
accompanied sniffles,
so undignified,
the son smiles at himself
declaring unabashedly,
digging out from himself
a poem, a self-reflection
on time tarnished reflections
clear enough to make him
sob,
believing

I love dignity.

"Daddy" "Daddy"
"Watch me" "Watch me"
As she jumps hands on the settee
She jumps higher each time,
I want to be a cricket,
I want to
Hop,
Skip,
Jump
Bounce up and down
But they jump well, but not high enough
"Daddy" "Daddy"
"Watch me" "Watch me"
I'm a bunny,
Bounce, bounce, bounce*
I bounce higher this time,
But the whiskers make me sneeze
And I really don't like carrots,
"Daddy" "Daddy"
"Watch me" "Watch me"
I'm a kangaroo
Boing,
Boing,
Boing
Look at me go look at me
Fly through the air, and land
Once again on the ground,
"Daddy" "Daddy"
"Watch me" "Watch me"
I loved being a Kangaroo but it was too hot,
I want,
I wish,
I bounce
In to space, the biggest jumper in
The know universe
I want to be an astronaut
I want to jump from
Earth
To the
Moon,
I want to hop along asteroids
Like I was playing hop scotch
"Floating endlessly"
One jump, two jumps
Look at me float, look at me daddy
I jumped on the moon,
"Little lady"
"My little jumping bean"
"You must learn much"
"Do good at school"
Then you can use your amazing bouncing talent.
Use it to jump from here to there,
But my little princess your only five,
So much time to
Bounce,
Skip,
Jump
Upon everything you see, the moon
Can wait till you grow up,
*"My utterly amazing little jumping bean"

My poems are
lost down a shady grove,
They've taken up residence,
In a rainbow room,
Reflections cast on four white walls,
Whispered from this closing tomb,
Singing songs no one knows,
Poems lost in airy ether,
No one knows where they go.

My poems ride the winds,
Cascading down,
Tumbling into oceans
to be buried within,
When no one is looking,
They rise again.
It has been said
in space, no one can hear you scream,
Silence known far to well.

My poems are silence
in a darkened room
banging on consciousness door
to be set free,
Thought bubbles floating
in the breeze,
Set free, finally.

Pop.

She measures love in ink
and by the storm brewing in the sky
She measures love in torment
and by the look she finds in your eye

She measures moments in seconds
itching movements beneath her skin
She measures moments in ecstasy
aching touches that breathe with sin

She measures a look
with a jaundiced eye
and a gesture that's so worthless
She measures a look with a sigh
then turns back to something
more worth it

She aches to be touched
but cannot stand
a hand that's raised toward her
She aches to be spoken to
in a soft sweet voice
angels sighing in harmony
is what she prefers

She kisses all that touches her lips
be it poison or profound
She anchors herself
to the hands at her hips
it keeps her head from floating
to the clouds

A solid point of connection
is the world she has so often tried
that has been wasted by much rejection
*she writes such perfect lies

~

living well,
it is an art.
life...
it comes to us
a canvas white,
but in the early
light of day
begins to add
the palest grays,
the hues from this
begin to change,
transforms in
colored shades
the joys,
the glories
and the pain.
painted in most
ardent strokes;
the boldest lines
from artist’s hand
from palette knife
his color band,
its composition
each displays
in full array,
the loving well
of ones we’re given.

though death,
it hovers
its distant border,
it frames life’s art,
and wraps its gift;
our words in ink
are painted black
our spoken love
in paper back,
cradles it
from dawn to dusk,
enables it,
displays for us
the life of it,
it adds the soul,
the why of it and
makes exquisite
art of it.

yes, even
this our end
explains the how,
the when to make
the best of it,
to live amidst
the zest of it,
and thrive though
when bereft of it.
that in the knowing,
and the viewing,
the vowing,
and the doing,
we behold
the wonder of it;
and we can say
while yet in
mortal frame...
we loved our best,
and gave the rest
...away!

~

*post script.

the art of living well is all in the preparation... for our passing.

death, like a frame around life, makes it stand out in exquisite display; helps us to appreciate every life and every moment as art.

there is beauty in the desert... for suffering is not an absence of beauty, but an opportunity to understand love on a deeper level and behold the glory of the gift of life.

http://www.aholyexperience.com/2015/03/how-to-recover-the-lost-art-of-dying-well-what-kara-tippetts-taug­ht-us/

inspired by the reading, the hearing of Kara Tippetts life, her battle and her ultimate triumph. knowing her story is changing mine.  there are many borrowed snippets in this composition, words, phrases and paraphrased thoughts.