Losing John

1.

So often in the past
the grace of a good bye
was never offered –
hearts washed by deep regret
smarting from the blow,
vowing that the next time
the words would be said
while with the living

Sadly now I have the chance
to be sure, before you leave,
that you know the depth
of what you’ve meant, how
you’ve marked my heart.
But how do I find the words
when I cannot accept
a world
that moves along without you?

II.

Surely there were weeks,
perhaps months?
You would fight and give me time
I would fight
to find a courage that would match your own
and face myself the loss of hope, the birth of resignation
But ah!
One week – one small set of days –
“I love you” whispered in an ear
already searching for the song of Heaven,
one more good soul, sweet soul
softly slipped
home.

III.

If no words at parting, what?
How to honor
that which meant the most?
The same as for the others
who were gone too soon.
Carry proud a flag of these best things:
hope resilient
goodness wide
laughter free
love remarkable and strong
a standard for the world to see
you
in me.

The Cranky Patient

I could have one disease
Or two, but really,
Now we’re pushing it a bit.
A disease or two
And a condition,
Would suffice, but no,
Still more afflictions.
No one really wants to hear
Me prattle about how this hurts
Or how old beyond my years
I feel, when something is
too much,
too hard,
too not the me I was.

Too sad really, this inflammation
Of so many systems,
But especially the one that sustains
My sense of self.
In jeopardy? What little beauty I agree I carry.

Ah, the gnarling
Of body parts and soul
The fierce ignorance of how short
The race really is,
And how much more comfortable it would be
In sneakers.

Late Bloomer

More shy than your sisters
who in yellow and white
stood up first.
Now in purple
you appear
Late yet just in time
A sign, affirming Hope
Bringing Spring to
a heart lately terrified
by fear,
by the edge of death,
by the temptation of Doubt.

Welcome.

photo credit: R. Bean 3/26/2006

Paleontology

They’re dinosaurs.
In my middle age,
I call them dinosaurs.
Nothing like the gentle/savage
mysteries found in the museums
and books of my children’s youth.
No, but still,
they are my dinosaurs.
One by one,
disappearing from
the landscape of my family,
their leaving as much a mystery to me
as the disappearance of the
triceratops,
or the brontosaurus
and yet inevitable,
taking with them a way of living,
of loving.
When they are extinct,
will they be, like the secrets
held in stratified earth,
discovered anew, studied, appreciated,
by those who never knew them?

My dinosaurs.
I will miss them.
There are so few left.
Leaving me to become
one of them,
dinosaur to those who next
inherit
this layer of creation
Will I be measured the same,
found a fitting evolution of love
or the beginning of the fall?
Will I stand up to exhumation
worthy of display, of study,
protected artifact
or common stone, briefly sifted,
unremarkable, and tossed aside?