¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
this old
decrepit barn
reminds me of a tale
my grandfather
once told

it took him
a life to tell it
but he told it well

this barn has
been here
as far back as I
care to remember
but there's a beautiful
story kept in that
old place—
the story
of a good
man's life

it is a marvelous story
it was a beautiful life

it was filled with
responsibility
compassion
generosity
kindness
charge
love

a­ll these things
and a lifetime
more

but
the closure
warms my heart
more than anything
and we all had our
part to play in
the end

we gathered
thirty-two-strong
around that tiny little bed
in that pitiful room all
smushed together
and recycling
each other's
unwanted air

it was our duty
and none of us wanted
to help him tie that final ribbon
but we soldiered on
for his sake

and we all witnessed
the fruits of his labor

as one voice went
a song to accompany
that ominous death rattle—
it was a joyous song of
worship and
praise to
God
for His
blessings
and yet a tune
eerily timed by the
awkward percussion
of a tired and dying man

so that song
went over and over

and i heard him whistle
lightly along with us
like he used to with
that same ol' hymn
on his heart—his
children and his
grandchildren

that song
went over again

and i saw him look at me
with that crooked grin
and he nodded
letting me know
everything was
"copacetic"

and that song
went over still

and i heard him
laugh over the pain
and over the tears
and over our
resounding
voices

that song
went over
as he whistled
and grinned
and laughed
one last time

but he couldn't

and his lips didn't smile
and his eyes didn't open
and his lungs struggled
to take in as much
as they could
of that stale
unwanted air

so he must've
only listened

it was then
i realized
his only
life goal was
to breathe in that
air de trop and to be
there in that cramped
box with one window
one cheaply made door
and one unfortunately
unfilled closet which
was wide open and
occupied by two
or three more
beautiful
voices
for the sake
of space

so we all soldiered on
for the sake of closure
and for his sake
and for our sake
and for my sake

and for the first time

i had fully grasped
the concept of the
family unit

in my mind
we were no longer
separate and connected
only by heritage

we are blood

what
courses
through
his veins
his legacy
his essence

for he taught me that on
some bright morning
when my life is over
i'll fly away to that home
on God's celestial shore..

for he taught us all to sing

I'll fly away! O Glory!
I'll fly away! When I die,
"Hallelujah" by and by!
I'll fly away!

and
that joyous song
was finally over then

and at that very moment
with one final thump on
that beautiful drum
and with one final
breath of that
coveted
stagnant air
in that modest
one-window room
we watched as
our voices
found
their
purpose

and they carried
him home with a song
for the sake of
his heart
as he left behind
this old decrepit barn
for the sake of
ours

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. . . of incantations in                        
cantankerous philosophy!                
Of these lying liabilities,                    
   what startling objection, so accosting,
has exhausted me? More so than    
named quite unfortunate atrocity!  
Shall hordes of thought be accursed
by degrees of displeasing hostility  
such that satiated curiosity                
be evermore abashed in me?            

                    “. . . but I have admonished thee,”
                                                            said­ he,

this subtle, blackened tenant            
with a tin man's tonality.                  
This paper drum that bends to sing
does beg of him the courtesy;          
yet, acrid rhetoric singes the hair    
with unfavorable flintlock fidelity.
His evasive guarantee then              
upends the pores relentlessly.        

“These words will compel a poor
                    foresight to bleed in the fray
          as cascading tears cast their weight
                              upon cheek in dismay . . .”

. . . to quash the cypress toxin          
of a caustic potpourri—                    
a dissembling toupee                        
to one's balding reality.                    
O lasting opacity                                
of such poignant translucency,        
this flagrant serendipity,                  
once spawned, must always be?    
Possibly; though, I cannot count    
how many sets see dawns at sea.    

                    “. . . but I have astonished thee,”
            said he

through this Möbius rebuttal          
like some soap on TV,                      
though, it’s ne'er some rerun          
what’s cliché wants creativity.        
The veiling lee of his lofty marquee
     beclouds that one pyrrhic mystery—
that now-clandestine oblation        
of one bless'ed unanimity.              

“Akin to a twin whose soul’s
                    one sin was mine to portray.
          ‘I’ll pay ne’er a thought!’
                              curs’ed common naïveté . . .”

. . . and yet, that's cause to bend    
reverent knee, not to thee,              
but to that which mine                    
eye's sole endeavor is to see.          
“So, leave me be!”                            
I lament, ostensibly,                        
“Lest that passage fall paved          
by none other than me.”                
Perhaps the Second World war    
is just my cup of tea.                      

                    “. . . or perhaps this darkness is me,”
said he

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To my tiny—so tiny, tiny butterfly:
To my muse of childhood lullaby:
To my fair maid in seas of chai:
all at once, I do love you!
You left me then, but
then came back!

Oh,
you came back,
my tiniest butterfly!
I see you flap your
wings as you do
sing your
artful tone
through pipes
that lead to nowhere.

Oh! There! You perch atop a belle—
that blade of grass you call your own!
You eat of the Earth; but your mind is
accursed of countless mites that leech
upon your tiny—so tiny brain.

To my butterfly,
your brood
will all sing the
same: so tiny, so,
so tiny the flying
of butter!

Oh!

Please
come hither
to me, hitherto the
brink of reality; alight
on my fingertips and
stay with me, you
stupid, whimsical
insect. For once, I called
you my own, my tiny butterfly.
So butter—such tiny, flying butter—
so fly. So—fly away? Then go and fly!

Let the wind guide you! You have no
place here, friend. May the owlet
never find you. Though, I'd
say you deserve to die
as I, you twisted,
unforgiving bug!
You’re useless to me
now, but I love you like
the day I stumbled
upon your
thought
of me.

Once you
were a curse to
me, and now you
are but dust to me.

So go and see what
waits for thee in the
unforgiving world
of endless, moldy
windowsills!

¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
please let the
author'd
man
take heed!
let his steps
hold firm and
emboldened
by his only
Father
and
let him
compose a
life worth
reading!

﹊
for
ev'ry
man is
given a gift,
the quill of choice
and the inkwell of his
own will and reason,
and should he take
care to fill it with
his col'r—the
onliest brand
of his deepening
desire—then let him.
and, let him strike at the
pages with precision—as a
surgeon of the parchment for
he never wastes a page and
should he always have
a word to say,
then
let him
compose a
life worth
reading!

﹊
may
he teach
his children well
and may their choices
be a song—sweet lyrics
of their compassion
and innocence.
and let them
cherish
their
gifts and
practice proper
penmanship that their
choices in life may encourage
those both young and old and that
they may inspire those that misuse
their only gift not to author
their filthy obscenities
and blasphemies
and curses
against
both
Father and
fellow man. and
should any man advise
his own to embrace the
expressions of pace
and of repetition
or should he
encourage
them to
speak
once,
then
*let him
compose a
life worth
reading!

Let your agony sail on a paper boat;
Wind will be its captain.
Allow it to drift far, far away
until it sinks into the depth
of sunken emotions.