I held the smallest fragments
of what had once been my dear friend
in my hand.
Never had I held the cremated remains
of another human being.
I found it to be rather benign, physically.
Mentally though,
I imagined that I found it distasteful,
but not really all that much.
My mind softened the scenario further.
I imagined that I was holding in my palm,
what was once my poet-friend’s thumb.
Now, I had this ethereal thumb
to further, fashionably so,
guide my own pens or pencils across pages
yet to be written,
upon verses as yet unknown.
I took great solace in that thought.

David William Thomas’ thumbprint
is on these pages,
smearing,
ever so gently,
the ink that lays across the face
of this simple piece
of my own soul.

We spiraled what remained of our kindred
across the open spaces
of a modest Missouri wood
as the moon rose above;
the woodpeckers,
the coyotes heedless of our intrusion.

Gates locked against us,
we circumvented their blockade
in the names of sage-smoke and brotherhood,
of mentors and men bent on Buddhist
benevolent remembrance.

We set fire to kindling,
remembered our fallen friend
in a way that he,
above all others,
would have appreciated the most.

In a place called Sunbridge,
a path of passage to a greater plane of being,
poets held sway over all but nature.

Our altars were The Earth,
our robes,
vestments of denim, canvas, and leather
were holy.

Even the invading Conservation Agent
deserved less than the truth,
because he was inherently ignorant
to this event’s significance
in our collective lives at the time.

So,
lies and half-truths were served;
we escaped unscathed.

The lilacs knew,
but remained silent.

Only the tiger spoke.  

*
-JBClaywell

© P&ZPublications 2019