Apr 2017
~
and, to the young,
it comes with bitterest agony,
because it takes them unawares.
The older have learned to ever expect it.”
Abraham Lincoln
~~~
time is the seasoning spice,
rubbed into the unwanted go to hell gifted
cracks and crevices,
of aging,
ever deepening tracks of rusted orange paprika tears that are undepletable
experience, that cursed pretend friend,
has been-weathered worn upon our faces
you young think you have it all,
you cannot have my sorrows
though they come to
me well awares
undisguised in shiny silver sunlight and
full moon bright,
whipped, collected and freight-weighed by the poundage
the tears of surprise are no wetter than mine
and surely but half as bitter as mine
than have accumulated and aged and bred permanence cursed down upon my
grayed hairs
you weep grievously
throw your body twisted to the floor
then you realize mine
is already there -
a cushion for you
and hardwood
my pillow
you have hope of repair -
making surprises treatable, tenable
and tentative
perhaps your gasp
of shock
louder than my grasp
of yet another cut's meaning
but learning to expect it
neither lessens it or
ameliorates
you want proof?
look upon me, come look upon me or better yet
look upon the portraiture
of Abraham Lincoln
and, to the young,
it comes with bitterest agony,
because it takes them unawares.
The older have learned to ever expect it.”
Abraham Lincoln
~~~
time is the seasoning spice,
rubbed into the unwanted go to hell gifted
cracks and crevices,
of aging,
ever deepening tracks of rusted orange paprika tears that are undepletable
experience, that cursed pretend friend,
has been-weathered worn upon our faces
you young think you have it all,
you cannot have my sorrows
though they come to
me well awares
undisguised in shiny silver sunlight and
full moon bright,
whipped, collected and freight-weighed by the poundage
the tears of surprise are no wetter than mine
and surely but half as bitter as mine
than have accumulated and aged and bred permanence cursed down upon my
grayed hairs
you weep grievously
throw your body twisted to the floor
then you realize mine
is already there -
a cushion for you
and hardwood
my pillow
you have hope of repair -
making surprises treatable, tenable
and tentative
perhaps your gasp
of shock
louder than my grasp
of yet another cut's meaning
but learning to expect it
neither lessens it or
ameliorates
you want proof?
look upon me, come look upon me or better yet
look upon the portraiture
of Abraham Lincoln
February 16th, 2016
see
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1555158/abraham-lincolns-famous-civil-war-condolence-letter-to-young-*****-mccullough-about-death-loss-and-memory/
~~~
O Captain! My Captain!
BY WALT WHITMAN
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
see
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1555158/abraham-lincolns-famous-civil-war-condolence-letter-to-young-*****-mccullough-about-death-loss-and-memory/
~~~
O Captain! My Captain!
BY WALT WHITMAN
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
