IF I could have stopped you.
I would have jumped in my car, raced to Hohenwald,  and slung gravel as I sped down your driveway, braked fiercely to stop inches from that guest house,  and fly out  from the inside of my car,  screaming, "Don't do it!  I'm here,   Uncle Brandon!  I love you! We all love you! "
I would have ran up the cedar steps, kicked the door in with my foot,  and yelled as loud as I could until you answered me.
No matter how many times I yell at your headstone, you never answer me.
You were a cowboy, traveling all over the country,  and seeing sights that many would never witness in their lifetime.
You had broken every bone in your body twice
you had a sense of humor
intelligent (two degrees), both in English and Teaching.
You had dreams of being a lawyer and
a college professor.
Only you were a cowboy first.
You loved to ride,  and you loved with a heart bigger than Montana sky.
I wish you had not left.
I miss seeing your dark brown matted hair, peeking from beneath your torn,  curved cowboy hat as you tipped it at me, with a wink,  adding, "See you when the wind changes"
You were a poet.
I think of you when I write,  and part of me still blames myself for not telling anyone about seeing you at my work that night.  You looked awful and I knew something was wrong,  but I didn't say anything--I have no clue why.  
You loved life,  why did you leave?
You had love,  why did you look?
We were your family,  why did you leave?  
I shouldn't be typing this
You are dead.
The world lost a true cowboy.
A man that lived by the sweat of his brow,  and the dirt on his clothes.
I would have stopped you.  I would have grabbed that gun,  and hugged you for the longest time,  and then I would have saddled up your horse and one for me.
Then the four of us would trot along to the highest hill we could find,  and I would watch the sun move across the sky, and tell you that every sunset of every day is always different, so you don't need to miss a single one.

Uncle Brandons last poem
   Im riding. Riding this way is like playing a finely tuned instrument, at times delicate, at other times powerful... The true artist can play with equal dexterity a soft ballad or a crashing march.

i'm awake.
i shouldn't be, but here i am,
floating in condensed night, wondering
where my body went,
and why i'm awake at all,
when i hear it again -- the herald of my awakening:
a voice softly whispering my name
my entire name
me
without a choice, i am pulled into the speaker's presence
and i swallow
because, if it was anyone, it would be him, wouldn't it?
he's clutching his pillow and he shudders and if i were able to speak,
i'd joke that he should really learn to be quieter when he does this
i'd tease him about the clamminess of his skin
i'd say his full name slowly, roll it around my mouth, part my lips and say it huskily
like i wanted nothing else but him
                                                  (it's not hard to act out the truth)
these are the things i would do if i could speak; as a silent spectator,
i'm forced into sobriety,
into knowing he's not jackin' off at all
he's crying
desperate, disgusting sobs
every shudder spikes through me and i have to leave
i'd rather stay asleep for a millennium then to be the object of his
broken affection

Those stones I think about everyday
Bill Perry and his posses' never hidden truth, endear each soldier down to rest
He gathers people near and far to plant the seeds of a golden star

A golden star not of shame
A golden star all the same
We watch and see the people cry to touch their loved ones long gone by

On stones these fingers do caress
On stones I feel the emptiness
On stones that should not be
On stones of a written eulogy

A bugle echoes taps to all
A boatswain pipe returns its call
To salute our gone by kindred all...

In the swirling tempest she waits,
a spirit held in reverent patience and abandoned solace.
Just as it was always meant to be,
her ice cold hands reach out,
pulling me in to the unknown,
a void so willingly embraced.

The dust settles, outlining your hand print on the bedroom floor, don’t want to breath, don’t want to move lest it be disturbed.
Gazing out through the condensation of my window into the midnight darkness, I try to recall our every word,  our every sentence,
whilst my heart beats out the endless lonely hours like the ghostly drummer on some ancient battle field.

© H V Swan

Is it pain we feel when we gaze upon a summer’s moon ?,
I hear her gentle whispers,
Feel her touch in the soothing summer breeze,
She surrounds me, consuming me,
Her tears lap up to my toes, on an empty beach,
Longing to embrace her soul within my own,
hands on a clock that remain still, never to move,
just as the moonlight fades with the rising sun, she disappears.

© H V Swan

What is it we miss about those who no longer have a voice,
is it the lingering fragrance of softly whispered words,
the security of a heart beat through an ear resting on a chest,
the solidarity of an understood silence,
two souls embraced sharing unwritten secrets,
yet now all is replaced by the empty silence on the dawn of another sleepless night.

I spent all night crying
All morning grieving
And missing
Someone
Who didn't miss me
Half as much
As I him.

F.Z.N