Monday, November 15, 2010

Three Funerals

How is it measured:
The distance between points,
Each step a thousand miles
Reached in an echoed whisper,
Through cold water flats
And shotgun shacks,
On street corner bus stops,
Or behind shades,
Sung to fevered babies.

The wet dew frozen
Freezes once lush blades,
Now brittle and crushed
Under once confident steps,
Become halted and heavy.
The wind stings, the trees naked,
Showing no hope of thaw.
Gone the raspberry afternoons
Spent in antique gazebos
In the park by the dry canal,
As the July thunder calls out
To the rain waiting in clouds
For the moment  to burst,
Saturated, sustaining green life.
Gone that moment you first realized
That you were holding your
Future tight to your chest.

She was tall and proud and beautiful,
And she was broken down the middle.
Try as I might I can’t put my eyes
Into hers to see what she saw.

Flesh of my flesh,
Bone of my bone,
The blood of my soul,
Where are you now?

It is a pain I will never know,
This pain that I sing of,
An agony not to be
Sung of in ignorance
But foolishly, perhaps, I do.
Since the harvest was too soon.
The furrows too deep.

You, specter I do fear
more than the others
Your lesson too clear
Wrapped in the shadow
I do not want to enter.

We parted the place wanting to forget,
Setting out to anaesthetize memory.
Some hid alone, I hid with the pack,
But my one companion were those eyes
Whose soul was fissured by a crack
In the simplicity of black and white
There is more truth than in color,
Which is simply garish and vulgar
With all its hypnotically distorted hues.
The monochrome is like a chart 
Tracing a line shot from the past
Into the present future;
A bruised heart wrapped
In an innocent, knowing smile.

I’m glad the shadow drew me away,
A merciful shield from the flesh
That laid like melting clay,
To point me to the past,
A reminder of what’s to come.
Not just of plain oak boxes
Or the torture before she succumb
To the cold plot dug deep.
So that these images do not melt me
And drive me to the anesthesia,
And hollowed eyes and wrinkled faces,
Creased by tears of a barren house,
But lead to what is new, what is real.
What is true, what is Risen.

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