skirts billowing in the cool wind,
the view of the town behind our backs.
her red nails clutching my rings,
desperately trying to find something tangible to hold onto.
pencilled in eyebrows in a permanent furrow.

we're planting him like a seed.
taking an object of permanence from the hearth at home,
from his slippers and his housecoat
and his comfortable bed
and lying him to rest on the hill.

she's standing by his side weeping.
it's like dragging an infant from its mother.
all she wants is to take him home,
dirt encrusted red nails
placing cold feet in warm slippers.

pulling a heart from its owner.

she's holding on harder than before,
pretending that my hands are his.

the grass blows like wispy tufts of his hair
and suddenly he is everywhere
and she is being ushered to the car
arms enclosed around her
white nails, pink nails, blue nails,
a manicured shawl of all the love we can give
to protect her from the pain of goodbyes.

skirts billowing in the wind,
turning back toward the town,
re-entering a world which he no longer inhabits.

You always loved to drive.
I remember how it made you smile.
Made you feel alive
Mile after mile.

Your mind after mine
You are my dad after all
But I could never find
The drive to follow

I let you drive off
Into the night and never knew
That would be the last time I'd see you

Red tail lights, blurred, as I walk home.

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                                      Where Danger Lurks

You must be careful about your surroundings
Not overly tense but ready for anything
Balanced on your feet, looking around
Paying attention to everyone’s hands and eyes

Always ready for an unexpected punch
Some long-ago resentment coming to boil
Or a random stranger who doesn’t like your face
Your voice, your shoes, your shirt, your tie, your coat

In a fetid cesspool of drama and divorce –
I allude to a Christian funeral, of course

I won’t cry
well not for too long
perhaps just now and again a tear will fall
you worked hard all of your life
now the work is done
you can rest up a bit
although you will fit it hard to sit still
you always did
perhaps you are a butterfly or a bee
busily checking on your garden
I think you would like that
happy among the flowers
you have not gone from our hearts
whenever I see a garden in full bloom
I will smile
and you will be with me

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                                 After Momma’s Funeral

Three Voices:

Where does – I mean, did – Momma keep the coffee?
That cupboard over the coffee maker
The preacher prayed a fine funeral for her
He’s an idiot; no one believes that stuff

Momma did; I say that’s what important
Let’s not argue; Momma wouldn’t like it
It doesn’t make any difference; she’s gone
And let’s not babble about what Momma wants

I’m not babbling; Momma raised us right, okay?
I want her Bible.
                                   Fine; I want her car

Saying that final goodbye to a loved one,
it’s always been poignant and sad…
But recently it’s joined the online,
the surreal… the quite mad!
The scrolling photo’s on the crematorium wall
have always been more suited to the social media bag
than what, until the digital age,  had a more…
mediaeval...churchy, tag.
Cheers and farewell to Gran, Sis, Bro, Cuzz, Mum or Dad
can now be done without anything at all being said…
Or even, if you’re just a friend or a really distant relative,
long haul, away, abroad... or, just sitting up in bed!

No Funeral.
No Wake.
Just get me down
to the Take’n’Bake.
When they’re done
sweep me into a bag or box
and scatter me wide.
Bits here and bits there
I don’t suppose I’ll really care
or notice where I am.
Places I’ve lived, loved and ventured.
Views that I might have seen
maybe from times when I’ve been
younger, fitter, when health was better.

No funeral means
No awkward reunions
between unmended siblings,
the kids, where a bit of a do
would spoil the day.
And, because it’s MY death,
and it would have been MY day
we’ll just leave it. It'll be better that way.
So none of those daring, glaring
or sympathetic looks.
The disappointment is well in the past.
Do what comes naturally
when I’m long gone. I hope it works
I want no part of it - nor ever did.
But obviously it irks!

But anyway that’s not the only reason
there should be no fuss.
Fuss to benefit not one of us.
I’ve been spiritual, but not religious.
I was parentally shoe-horned into church
but probably wouldn’t have bothered at all
if it’d been left up to me.
I'm happy to like one and all and,
if I got it back, that means I got it right

Being an atheist or agnostic
doesn’t mean you’re a bad person…
It just means you’ve thought it through
and come up with a different answer
than most of the Sunday shufflers,
those who might not question their motives
but just be in that groove. I say Live & Let Live.
What is it THEY say? Be nice to everyone you meet
on the way up… because you never know
who you might meet on the way down!
That about does it. Keep the info sparse.
Always leave them wanting more...
Hedge your bets, cover your ****!...
And the meek shall inherit the earth
If that's OK with the rest of you.
Me? - Ce’st la vie.

the existence of you should not strike fear into my still, beating heart
for you are not a product of the sins your brother's ****** hands carved,
yet, i cannot help, but recall the touch you and i miss, forced over my body and my mind, with the reminder of his suicide,
when i see your name;

and it may be that you feel his loss, once again,
or wish to forget how you solemnly shared with me,
in the halls where we cried until we were emptier,
and the edges of reality blurred into our tears,
with our shallow, shaky breaths,
that i was his closest confidant
when you see mine.

they say that to love someone in a lifetime,
you have to attend a thousand funerals
of people who they used to be.

i stood before yours in disbelief,
as you stood before mine;
pale, cold, grasping for life.

IA

what they don’t tell you about funerals is that nothing ever feels real in that too-cold room. not the flowers. not the food. not the rooms in the back your uncles stayed in to keep watch. not the ill-fitting white t-shirt your father made you purchase yesterday. not the sad smile on your grandmother’s face instead of her usual bright ones. and certainly not the dead body of your grandfather in the epicenter, still as the corpse he is and none like the grandparent you grew up with.

there was no such thing as an open casket in your family, which was good, you suppose. it’d be too much to see his face without his usual frown. the smell was off. like tea and incense and flower petals—the ones you used to bathe the buddhist statues at the vihara every new year.

the catered pork ribs taste like sandpaper. you keep waiting for the buttery taste of your grandfather’s recipe to hit your tongue but you are met with msg. it was one of the many disappointments you encountered in those three days, three absences from school. none of your friends checked up on you further than to offer their “deepest condolences”. your crush has not texted you back. you drink bottled mineral water as your mother fights with your father, whose father had just died, again.

by the time the ceremony comes you are confronted with the gold of the casket up close. you wonder if it was real gold. a few hours ago your little cousins, yet to understand the concept of death, tugged at your sleeves and asked when grandpa would be home. you sealed your lips shut and let your younger cousin handle them like she always does. because you’re not ready to admit that you don’t understand death either; not in second grade when the dragonfly your classmates cruelly stomped on no longer flew, not even less than a month later, when your other grandfather passes.

you whisper words of prayer in the mother tongue you no longer remember. your cousin sheds a tear in front of you and you wonder if it’d be appropriate to console her now. you think about how much your kneecaps hurt from kneeling for a long time. your aunt’s cries perfectly masked the buzzing phone you sneaked into your pocket. later that night, your third uncle told everyone that he saw his father-in-law welcomed by guan yin herself; you wonder if it was true, or merely another lie adults tell kids and themselves to feel better about the nonsensical nature of mortality.

what they don’t tell you about funerals is how much like a fever dream they are. when the proceedings are over you drive straight home. home smells like home and your maid made your bed like usual. the stuffed bear on your pillow has not moved since the morning. it is 11 pm, and your mother yells at you to sleep soon because your grandfather may be a jar of ashes stored in vihara but you have school tomorrow. it is time to go to bed.