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Poet Commentaries

Resurrection Poems

…..
I played the spaces
between notes
with an instrument
designed for them.

I cannot be present with loved ones as they mourn the death of there beloved Husband, father and grandfather.  These poems made during times of past losses I share for them, a poor substitute for not being able to be there.

 

Last Kiss  

My best dog Annie would bite me if I pat her.  Put her to work and she was frisky and happy, scritch her back and you might lose that hand.  My other best dog Reese was the opposite.  Touch her or even look at her lovingly and her tail would wag through china, she would run in circles and jump up.  What a mess.  The moral of course is one must teach a dog both how to love and how to be loved.

sit
stay
that a girl


There are times where I too am pat and, like the dog, there is an imperfect response to it.  The voice of love, the tear of seeing and the soft touch all seem incongruous to what I feel.  That tear wells with energy and knowing.  It grows and runs down the cheek with the knowledge of being incapable to contain perfect love. I wipe the tear and wag my tail going back to my vomit of rush and do.

the rush and do
traffic to pond
the rush and dew


My fear is the promise of my last tear being wiped.  There is the image of Jesus drawing near.  His eyes gentle and soft as forgiveness. His fragrance overwhelming, something I am meant to know but have never imagined.  He sees that last tear and leans His head forward as if to kiss it…..

afraid of love
I brush off
another last tear
not kissed

 

[ “Come unto me all that are weary and I will give you rest” ] ~Jesus

in all measures
there are
unplayed notes

Notes coffee stained
but never sent.
Buckets full of notes
never realized.
Forgotten notes
to self.

We’re so full of notes
and jingling change;
the bills crinkling.
For now all but drafts
in a currency
unknown.

Oh glorious day.
I spent, found change.

I played the spaces
between notes
with an instrument
designed for them.

I played the space
between the ungerminated
and germinated
for an eternity.

I watched every synapses
of my second first step
tripping on purpose
just because.

I paced
beside your death bed,
itching to travel
with the light
as it left your eye
to say I told you so.

 

Why the tears?  



He could feel blood explode
as it tracked through his veins
awakening him from perfect rest.
He rolled over and willed it to stop,
fighting to sleep in eternally.
To get back to where he was.

His eyes had just begun to adjust
to a strange dream’s spectra.
His naked body becoming relaxed
in perfect warmth and humility.
Over the sound of peace the call
and that lone cold tear fell.

He answered and became encased
in skin and old bones again;
decoupaged with coarse linen
and coated with sickly oils,
helpless to unravel himself
or find a familiar horizon.

Then came a hope to his despair;
muffled shouts and cries,
a stone rolling over dust.
He propped and pitched himself
stumbling towards translucent light
and mumbled exclamations of joy.

Ink freezes and language changes
between here and there you know.
Purposes that briefly were clear
are couched again in equations of
just because and becauses.
The Muse weeps for the poet.


Epilogue

Mary held back tears.
she grasped his cold hand
and watched his second last breath;
she had promised to Lazarus
not to roll the stone away again.

 

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