…And When We Leave

Time ticks down the remainder of my life.
Though no reverberation marks that forward existence
I feel its passage, none the less.
Where once my horizons were open
unfettered by human limitation,
I knew, but did not have true sense of it;
that one day, all too soon, my tomorrows
would no longer outweigh my yesterdays.

Even at that midway point,
like the carefree grasshopper’s gay existence
I played on, danced free, set no focus, charted no course.
While about me, time ticked on, my sense of self
distracted from the truth, as though Time itself
were the magician, and I the audience, unaware and
awestruck by a force so surprisingly adept at an ancient skill,
my sense distracted, far beyond the point of rescue.

All I can do for the lost hours,
for inspiring sunrises, and stunning sunsets,
gone beyond my grasp, is reflect…
I am lost in mirrors of reflection
lost in a puff of magician’s smoke
surprised by the season of life I am within
still wondering why the other seasons
went so fast, beyond my ability to hold onto.
Autumn, nearly over, Winter approaches –
festoons of colorful leaves hide the death they herald.
Winter’s colors have faded me to pale,
the once rosy blush of my cheeks has gone;
my heart, once full and light, is now empty
and so heavy with sadness as a final time
will visit, and bring to me unending night.

I have had my turn – sorry, but there is no other –
we get one shot, one chance, and yet every day,
we get another chance to make it count.

I used to ponder,
“What will people think when they remember me?”
But it’s a Vanity to toy with.  
What I should be thinking;
what I reflect upon, now daily,
is if I made a difference.
…if for one, brief, white-light and glorious moment
I did or said something that made a lasting difference,
if even to just one solitary life.  
If, in so doing, they looked forward –
to see the truth long before their Autumn ended,
and lived as though each day were their last.  
I’ll never know, and another wish goes unfulfilled, its song unheard.

Do not, my friends, put off until tomorrow – for by the time
we see that our tomorrows are so very limited – it will be late,
much later than we would have wished for.  
Be glad for the dance,
happy in the movement through life,
when all is said and done -
it is our own, solely our own,
and we take it away with us
when we leave.

Lin Cava
6 – May – 2013

More prose than poetry, I've posted how I feel in the best way I can.  I have run to ruin, lost my words, my ability to express, and worse, need to write.  I have no thought that I contain talent.  I will write, and one day, it will all go away.  Much as I shall, someday, meet my last breath.

To you…

In the dark dreams that have become my life
you are sunshine and starlight.

For the unreasonable, the unfathomable, the disparities
surmounting daily, you are sanity and reason.

For my silence, you are song.
In my lack of expression, you are music.

My words fade, my world diminishes
and focus affords me only darkness.
You are there, ever aware.
When my world ties me tightly into knots
you see how to loosen them, and weave me fabric.

My heart beats to stale metaphor and abused imagery,
though your words softly sigh, touched with fresh breezes.

I have seen sandy shores, and known the scent of fresh loam,
bursting with the seeds of spring; gentle rains, and the flight of seabirds,
through your eyes - there, within your words.

And when my world falls apart and crumbles beneath my feet
I am caught upon your open palm, within your caring touch.

I am relieved, refreshed, and comfortably happy
in the darkest of times, for you, whose care lifts me up.

There will never be a way to thank you, as I would want.
It is there, in my heart, in the blood that courses through me
All that I am, is all I can give, and I will ever give it willingly
to you.

©Lin Cava
15th March, 2013

-Remembered-
*
He is gone
has been gone
long before his life-light
blinked out.

In the wake of who he was
is emptiness
a chasm only he could fill -
now barren of his uniqueness

In his lingering
I saw the proof
that life is neither
fair, nor just

We have but one life
and many choices
When it’s through
there is no more

We bear our burdens
of poor choices
bearing witness to our
mistakes, or lack of purpose

And we ponder
near the end
feeling the hard pain
of having wasted time

Never wasteful, he was a man
who did not need to ponder
he took up the cause
of his fellows in life

Life’s circumstances; beyond the control
of the accident of our birth
become our burdens,
and change; our redemption

He filled the many lives he touched
with happiness, support and reason
He helped, when help was needed
and he Served; hard but well

For such a man is a hero
in many ways
and should not pass
through a lingering chasm

But life is not fair, nor just
and mankind has tinged
our natural outcome
by un-natural measures

He is missed, and the emptiness
more pronounced for the living
because of who he was
how he filled their lives and hearts

In memory, we must celebrate
for we all were touched
by a quietly remarkable man
Our lives ever improved for it.

I shall return to his gravesite
And place a stone upon it
For as long as a stone, is a stone -
He will be missed.

©Lin Cava
14th March - 2013

Tide

It washes over me like an errant tide
pushing and pulling; leaving me off balance.
I reach out without thinking, and feel rebuffed.
It arrives as a hot flush, color rises, blooming in my face
as though the aftermath of a slap; true enough to fit.

But the pain envelops my heart, the center of me,
the place I escape to, curl up in, like a comforting chair
to be alone, undisturbed; often my balm, my cure,
and steals from me the peace I search for to heal.
He is gone, softly, but thoroughly, like an old song I recall.

I try not to open my heart for want to pull back,
in denial of the pain that will come; but I am compelled.
I gasp in grief – no longer surprised at the emptiness
and am wounded by loneliness – the heart’s prison.
I am stabbed with pain in the knowledge he feels it too.

No caring soul could pull away from another
once connected at their very core, regardless of the mind’s decision -
Not without the pain of sadness, or of grief in the loss
for one so dearly loved.  The pain is mirrored -
the gossamer thread that connected them – near severed.

A part of me bleeds, but I gather it up, and hold it close.
I cannot let it pale me, nor shall I harden my heart –
a rigor-mortis to set in.  I shall bear the pain, perhaps until my end.
There is no release for me, no happiness, no vision into tomorrow.
Joyful events pale, as the paled blood of loss drains me.

I hear the call of the zephyr; see his face in the stars
Always, a scent of limes, of sea breezes and salt water
and that gossamer thread bears ever weakening vibration,
once alive and electric, or soft, quietly humming with life.
I worry, and deny that it is fading – a self-serving trick of my heart.

It washes over me like an errant tide.
In time, I may find comfort in the pain -
knowledge in the rhythm of its pounding waves
and hope it washes away this loneliness,
far and away out to sea; if he shall not answer again.

©Lin Cava
10-March-2013


©Lin Cava
revised 12-31-2017

He dies.
Slowly.

We learn that time is relevant
under the worst of circumstance
for it is then that we linger mercilessly
in a span that is not quick to end.

He cannot move,
harbors pain…
Pain that at first
in tight-mouthed determination
went unvoiced, unannounced
and only the expression
buried in his eyes
bore witness to others it was there.

He is losing ground.
Pain is winning –
in a clumsy sputter of movements;
the **** of the hand
a spasm of the neck
the errant jump of the leg at the knee;
and in each, a display of pain…
Pain that has finally found his voice
at first in moans
and then in suppressed shouts
of surprise, and upsetment
now growing more frequent
and ever more loud.

She watches, ever concerned
not put off, though he tries;
but hopes he shall not succeed
and with each day he worsens
each time he tries to push her away
he is ever surprised of her determination
and will to stay, relieved she does –
but loathe to let her know.

He is dying;
in tiny increments he cannot control
and not afraid of death. No;
he fears more that he shall not be able
to take charge of the choice
before he is unable, infirm in body or mind;
and tells himself he lives on
only because of her…

She is defiant – carries on
and knows
she cannot comfort him
without rebuke
and yet he is relieved
at her acts of comforting
and cannot show it.

He thought he had less time
and has lingered double that.
Each day brings new surprises,
never good, and hard received.

She sleeps, but does not rest.
With practice, the slightest sound awakens her
as she watches over him night or day
and waits, knowing one day
she will find him cold.
By the devil that consumes him –
or by his own hand.
And though her eyes are dry;
Her heart weeps tears enough to fill a river.

Lin Cava©
7th-March-2013

Missing You

The teardrop gently slips down the cheek
leaving its salty trail upon my face.

Born of the chasm of missing you
it slipped out against my will,
so powerless to stop it.

In a ray of sunlight it hovers,
capturing my attention…
I grasp for the wisp as it floats
beyond my reach
and for one moment of crystal clarity
I remember, and hold still…

The wisp lands, softly bouncing,
upon my outstretched palm
dancing in the warmth of air above it,
and barely touches me and I travel back…

I remember youth, remember song
caution to the winds, trampling through life
carefree…

When the wisp settles
like a flash coursing through me
I feel your heart and wonder,
if, like me, you have cushioned it,
wrapped and restrained your heart -
safe from pain and salvaged for another day.

The future is never certain and we seldom know
the length of our timeline.
Regret is a lonely emotion,
apology often too little
and always too late.

Another teardrop falls…
I cry – for I have lost a gift
one so unique, so dear
that it can never be replaced.

We are foolish, we men
and women of this earth.
Knowing, fully, that life is short
that some things are more precious
than any others
we tread upon them in careless abandon
as if we were children
senseless to our surroundings
imparting damage
to those whom we most love

And cry the lonely tears
of missing what we hold so dear.

4th February, 2013
©Lin Cava

…passed this way
-Lin Cava
©2013-January-23

Ah, my dear one…
Will we never learn?
Does time and trial
teach us no lessons?

Or, are we immune,
ever blinded by proximity –
too close to gather the truth
to spin a skein of knowledge
strong as silk
and just as soft?

Time decides for us
when we are late to act.
For nature cannot wait,
and must move on.

And time has come and gone –
for what was once an open door;
was once opportune for the moment,
has softly closed and locked in place.

And the hands of time
have latched all but the memory
of what might have been…
The windows are barred;
frosty with the cold left behind.

Through the silence
of a world hushed
by the snow of indifference,
a heart soundlessly freezes
and breaks.