a tribute

~

memories...
in fading sepia we find,
the romance of
another time;
albums filled
with black and white,
of glossy faces
burnt in fading light;
boxes of our ko-dak-chro-ments,
gone-by treasures,
once-upon-a-moments;
wistful years once crystal clear,
mem’ries drowned in haze,
resurface now,
renewed in tears,
...as we remember well.

memories...
the yellow ribbons tied,
’round an ol’ oak tree;
anxious waiting to make an “us”,
the anticipation of a “he and me”;
until the news from distant shore,
yet another casualty of war,
and now remains but this,
a marble slab inscribed,
in accolades of former glory,
merely remnants ’midst the pines;
on forest lawn where promises,
tween two for’er became untwined,
...as she remembers well.

memories...
so many are the ways
the mem’ry onward lives
even this, a,
“do this in...” request
restores a covenant anew
a "remembrance of..."
the “we” here left behind,
be it in the bread we break,
this forever to remind,
a sacrosanct entreaty made,
promise sealed as blood in wine,
reserving not for deities alone,
but given us immortal souls,
to us a gift at birth,
of staggering import,
responsibility of heavy worth;
of after-ashes keeping still,
an ever-after captured with
the shutter, brush and quill,
...so we remember well.

memories...
its keeping cherished lovingly
though its loss,
its diminishment bereaved;
as lovers silent grieve,
those lost to us yet breathe,
in memories ’midst the breeze.
forgetful of the slightest
until one day in finality
their mortal soul is set free
into immortality.
...to for’er remember.

memories...
to us, a call, a charge,
a “ne’er forget”
a duty large
a “do this in
remembrance of”
this our promise
to e’er remember,
always keep;
forgetting never,
to carry the flame,
while we yet live
in sunshine’s grip;
an oath is sworn,
that forever we,
shall always ready be,
for in remembering best,
the tears flow easily,
and so it isn't pity,
of a loss i seek,
no,
for ’tis in finding memory
that i shall always weep,
...as i remember well.

~

post script.

of love lost in the haze of war; of lives changing motion, a baby is born, as a grandmother moves into memory care... a cycle of life, brought full circle best in remembrance.  and this makes remembering perhaps the most important facet that defines, sets us apart as humans, best captured in this thought, "in forgetting the past we cease to be and bring hope forward for the future. and so we remember... for we must never forget!” and so we line our shelves, our walls with them, visiting inscribed stones behind fences.  

dedicated today to our memories each of loved ones, lovers lost; but on this dark eve, especially those who lost those souls, three thousand strong, a darkest day of remembrance, this September the eleventh, who never got to say goodbye... so we remember well!

Our Holy Communion of Words

you wrest my words away, with tongue and teeth,
running their sounds out with your soft tonguing,
gentling their enunciated freedom to float airborne,
but not before,
your teeth hone them sharper, wiser, better,
before freeing the letters
for life eternal rebirthing,
swapping, warping words,
into a
a holy communion

then with thy lips closing after them,
wishing them godspeed,
safe travels to yet another’s eye imbibing,
until released once more,
traveling from souls you likely
never to meet, embrace, greet,
but to whom you have formed a
direct intangible tangling,
shared wafered words,
a holy communion*

But

yours,
your words,

gut punch me,
how could you know,
where/\were
you there beside me when in darkened hours
the sun shone brightly, illuminating with bent light
our crevices and our crevasses,
your, words, written,
stun me into crazy, as if
you were within my interior
a cacophony exposed for all to hear,
my grunts & oofs,
visceral, too real, and
my actual tears cascade unfiltered
into the cup of our tangible entangling,
salted & starry*


our holiest communion yet!

~~~~~~~~
Fri Feb 9,
10:00pm~10:30pm

The Unbearable Winter’s mist

The winter’s mist,
peculiar,
the sky augurs
blue and sun mellow,
but clouded vision
begets and besets,
my own and owned
melancholy vision is
a consequential
snake like blurry speckled band,
of my own drawing,
covering my eyes,
when I read Márai‘s
wit, write, legal writ,
but with my corrected
add
of the
un
and my own self assigned
grade is a bright red
F


eye of the beholder

Life becomes unbearable
”when one has come to
terms with who one is,
both in one's own eyes
and in the eyes of the world.
We all of us must come to terms
with what and who we are, and
recognize that this wisdom is not
going to earn us any praise, that
life is not going to pin a medal on
us for recognizing and enduring
our own vanity or egoism or
baldness or our potbelly. No, the
secret is that there's no reward
and we have to endure our characters
and our natures as best we can, because
no amount of experience or insight is
going to rectify our deficiencies, our
self-regard, or our cupidity. We have
to learn that our desires do not find
any real echo in the world. We have
to accept that the people we love
do not love us, or not in the way
we hope. We have to accept betrayal
and disloyalty, and, hardest of all,
that someone is finer
than we are in
character or intelligence.”

Sándor Márai

(for Daisy, a true companion to poet rr)

in the city,
we fight daily the toughest of hombres,
brown, grayed, mottled city pigeons,
who fear no human predator,
in the fight
for the crumbs and crusts of
inspiration
however, they may come our way

get a message, a post,
with the words
“a good create”

the words form a chord,
in my throat, taut, visible, tense
even knowing it’s likely a typo,
probably meant “creature,.”

but the phrase strikes me
as one too little spoke
in our diurnal drudgery
numbing~dumbing struggle,
but, I take them as (a) writ,
for the crumb of challenge
proffered

if we cannot justify our existence,
daily with a new create,
then incumbent upon us
to cherish, double and thrice,
the good and wonderful
creates,
the surround us

been decades since my body
was warmed by the shape of an animal’s
curves fitted into mine,
our sleep rhythm intertwined,
nay,
one
<>
so once again,
I mourn a living poem
who crossed my path
in photo, in words,
but never,
not in,
living color


but the sighs of loss,
real

so as is my wont,
inquire within,
where shelter?

in the love
we create
tween us and our
creatures.

Lay My Body Down

Sunday sipping my Hawaiian java,
the world’s end is hallmarked this weekend,
like hash marks on a old fashioned
wood ruler,
and unrequested and unbequested,
heady voices demand a retelling,
even a tallied
recounting
of 2023
the year I almost blew it.

took some pics, even a video,
of my-internals, and pronounced me
nearer my god than thee,
I was precisely, scientifically,
97% almost dead,
said the occultist
said see you tomorrow
for a haircut and a nip and tuck
upon thy heart

strangely,
I was of good cheer,
not fully comprehending my walk on the edge,
and
strangely,
never gave it too much thought,
which for a poet,
is just plain weird.

But this Sunday,
as I lay my body down,
thinking about “deadlines,”
all missed,
and are all still, cursing me,
residuals of 2022 & 2023,
which are carry on baggage
for the next trip through the
door of
2024

and these words come jumbled and
we are out of time to sort
them better than this,
but
as I lay this body down,
one last time,
on the ruler’s edges edge,
the last hash mark nearly touched,
and almost
equidistant from this year and the
unmeasured blankness of a clean white sheet
of Next!

<>

a good ole saying, a good ole lyric,
“lay my body down”
invokes image of spring water
a brook wash~flowing
over the shell of man
clothed in white linen shroud,

water of clarity crystalline,
taking a tour~trip with an itinerary
of (must-see!) sights,
cracks and crevices,
slats, slots and slits,
apertures and orifices,
groans and worry lines
accumulated this nearby past,
my body’s own poem

<>

but I recall W.H. Auden’s words
about the revitalization quality of water,
and I decide to
baptize myself,
like recommissioning, retrofitting
an-old ship

(though I am a serious jew,
who knows nothing of this rite)

“But fortunate seemed that

Day because of my dream, and enlightened,

And dearer,

water,

than ever your voice as if
Glad—though goodness knows why—to run with the human race,
Wishing, I thought, the least of men their
Figures of splendor, their holy places.”

<>

in some places, you can follow the dotted lines,
on my physical container;
man-made marks from
exploration of my body,
now understanding these lines and holes
are a schoolboy’s
long division’s remainder,
(always annoying)
bits & pieces of him,
looking for a surety that one can
yet call it home,
one more year?

<>
my interstices,
tween the manmade decorations
of medical foreplay
and the cri de coeur
of my mental anguish,
are life reminders,
I am
alive and still hurting,
BUT

could be worse.


enough.