Posts Tagged ‘mourning’

The Living Left

November 4, 2016

All in their deaths
try to give them
that that which
they can no longer do
as the living
we are the surrogates
of the dead
through us they live
by proxy
and that is what is meant
by ‘never forget’

For the beloved
of the deceased
we must be there
to join in the dance
the merriment and passion
what else are we
if we cannot offer
a glimpse of relief
from grief

More from us pours
the longer we stagger on
past the graves of others
the more we owe
their left behind
to nourish and cherish
in their absence
who they cannot
is our moral obligation
as survivors
as the carriers-on

Grant unto them
what cannot be granted
by the lost
speak and love and adore
remember their past and
lead them forward past
is what we do
in their deaths


Stranger Woe

March 16, 2016

pain vicarious
we upload our tears
fill the shallow sorrow well
of the unknown dead
in our idle Western grief
we are found wanting
mourning loss of stars
craving real feeling
we push it online
into a collection plate
of strange lamentation
to outdo one another
at a game
of proximate sadness
so we might be depleted
of all anguish
that when death strikes
near and dear to heart
already we may be
without care
as cold as the celebrities
in their graves

Coal Choke

February 16, 2016

There is coal smoke inside me
blackening all brilliance
dimming the light
clouding my way
choking my song
it is dark in there
hard to be human in the haze
to see what is right
how to behave
appear normal

When someone dies
rather than grieve the grave
or celebrate the life
I only think
quite flatly
how they’ll never have to
change a toilet roll again
or stir in the oil
atop their peanut butter
or check for rain
on their cell phone app

Death should earn from me
a deeper response
and for propriety
I will pretend
make the appropriate gestures
emit the expected noises
but that is more smoke
fanning out
from my broken mouth
like the mourner’s veil
I must wear
to hide my dead expression

The Cup

February 22, 2013

Atop the dresser, a man in a soufflé cup
lock of hair, guitar pick, skull ring and teeth
the dead are things left behind
a few tangibles: photographs, audio and video
mostly memories
more and more daily impaired
that’s all
not too bad considering
there is, in remembrances and possessions, luxury
the decadence of leisure
to think back and lie of the deceased
how perfect, how loyal
how endlessly better gone than present
precious perishable humanity
allow me to tell you how
the dead in our head do not lie
never betray
always smell good
rarely excuse themselves to piss, shit, sneeze or look away
unable to any longer bear your gaze
hounding them, hounding them into their graves
of lit cigarettes and too sharp curves
unsafe speeds and ill-spoken words
the decisions of life that accumulate
to make the picture of the ride that was
always destined no matter the choice
to crash, to burn, to end, never last
that’s the way to the dresser’s top
mildly or wildly
we all get in the same cup

Sacred Squat

December 28, 2012

None but the dead live in memories – the dead like you –
it is their sacred squat
until no lung that shared their air breathes,
and that distant date arrives quick, passes,
and is gone without note, mark or wake.
All the accumulated grief of the 20th century:
its wars and murders
its car crashes and ship wrecks
its overdoses and suicides
are too soon to be mourned as no more
than vaporous words upon paper and stone
writ in history books, memoirs and poems
on memorials, markers and crypts
dead things possessed of dead memories
to have existed at all, they say, is a blessing
against the odds
a stroke of unfathomable luck, sandwiched
between formidable eternities of nothing,
but I really don’t give a fuck
about millions of sperm rushing in,
only one bearing any given name
or the 50% of all conceptions that wash out
into the basin, so much flushed menstrual blood
or the dizzying epochs of geologic time
our DNA crawled and survived
when all these people – sipping Frappuccinos,
dribbling balls, pressing cell phone buttons
are here, stupidly existing outside memory alone –
a place to where I would condemn them all to rescue you from it.

Until Soon

August 22, 2012

Only the dead have lived
And the living will in their turn
for having had the audacity of getting born
waking, working, wearing slowly out
in the most horrible of ways… repetitively
unimaginatively, mundanely
Ordinary in their lives
plain in their deaths
loving mother, wife, sister, daughter
she liked to sing and laugh
but spent most of her days doing neither
because rare was the moment to bring either to mind
she will be missed
until soon