Michelangelo wrote his love
forty-eight funeral epigrams—
not one of them brought back
the shoulders like chiseled marble,
the purr of his voice, his lips raw silk
Posts Tagged ‘death’
One More Reason to Kiss More Now
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged carpe diem, death, kissing, Michelangelo, poem, poetry, writing on February 10, 2019| Leave a Comment »
One Irreversible
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged apology, death, poem, poetry, timing on February 8, 2019| 2 Comments »
Wild and Precious
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged death, grief, homage, mary oliver, poem, poetry on January 18, 2019| 8 Comments »
—for Mary Oliver, January 17, 2019
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
—Mary Oliver, The Summer Day
And when she said, “you don’t have to be good,”
my whole body became wild goose
as the truth of her lines winged through.
And when she asked, “what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?”
I walked outside and heard the low river.
And when she suggested we live
as “a bride married to amazement,”
I made my vows to life.
On the day that she died, the winter
was too warm for snow, and the rain
gave luster to every sullen thing.
In me, a storm threatened to rise,
but the only words that would find my lips
were thank you, thank you, thank you.
The Diagnosis
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged being present, death, doctor, life, poem, poetry on January 5, 2019| 3 Comments »
Well, he said, I’ve seen it before.
You have all the symptoms.
Fairly common, actually.
You have life. It’s terminal.
I will give you, oh, about
forty years to live. Some people
really pull through, make the most
out of what they have left.
As he walked away, I listened
to his footsteps until all I could hear
was the sound of my own breathing.
God, it was beautiful, a tide, a river.
And that plant in the corner, have you
ever seen anything so delicate, so green?
After Reading about the Death
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged death, life, poem, poetry on December 27, 2018| 6 Comments »
It is the work of the living
to grieve the dead. It is our work
to wonder how else the story
could have gone. It is our work
to weep and worry, and it is
our work to heal. The clouds
hide the moon, hide the sun, sometimes
for days. We don’t believe
it will be forever. Some part of us
knows not only hope, but patience.
It is the work of the living
to love even deeper
in the face of death, to know ourselves
as flowers on the pathway,
easily crushed. The world crushes.
Some stems spring back,
some never rise again.
We know we must be resilient,
but resilience has wings
and sometimes flies away.
It is the work of the living
to, against all odds, grow wings.
It is our work to live—
and work it sometimes is.
It is our work to show up again
and again and again, genies
who refuse to go back in the bottle,
lovers who ever insist on love,
stems that feel sunlight and,
though we can’t yet move,
let it encourage our being.
What I Might Miss When I’m Gone
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged death, momento mori, poem, poetry on November 24, 2018| 1 Comment »
Scent of ripe quince—
how it wholly takes over.
Salt. Butter.
Pure cold water.
Release of carrot
just pulled from the earth.
Purple of lilac.
Playing with words.
Sweet thrill as a note
rises up through the lips.
Kissing, of course—
the sweet red crush of it.
Sun on my shoulder.
Voice of the lover.
The moment before
the moon breaks over
the horizon. Reading.
Walking for days.
Staring at stars.
High alpine skies.
And all the things I didn’t try.
All the unwalked paths.
Sleeping in. Waking up.
Uncontainable laughter.
And the silence after.
Let’s Say You Dreamed that You Died
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged death, dream, friendship, poem, poetry on November 12, 2018| 2 Comments »
Which, they say, is impossible,
but we all know the impossible
happens. If you dreamed
that you died, then I would
slip myself into your dream,
which is also impossible,
but now we’re on a roll
of impossibilities. So while
we’re at it, let’s say that while
I am in your dream, I slip
out of the dream and into
your room, which is really,
really impossible, but
wouldn’t that be cool,
to travel through dreams
into each other’s lives?
And then, once in your room,
I would watch you sleeping
and if you tossed and whimpered,
distressed by your death,
I’d lay my hand on your head
and I’d say, shhh, it’s alright,
You’re safe. I’m here.
And you would settle deeper
into your pillow, and I would
watch over your sleep and hum
a little song about home,
and the moon would hold us,
because this is a poem
in which impossible things happen,
and its long silver arms would
be warm and tender and soft,
and I wouldn’t wake you
in case it means I have to leave
the dream and find myself
unable to tell you you’re safe,
I’m here. I’m here.
One at the Memorial
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged baseball, death, life, poem, poetry on October 21, 2018| Leave a Comment »
Walking Up the Mill Creek Road, Practicing How to Be Alive
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged death, gratitude, marcus aurelius, nature, poem, poetry, Roman general, wind on October 9, 2018| 2 Comments »
You could leave life right now. Let that determine what you do and say and think.
—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations
And though the leaves blush golden and red
and though the sun cups my face like a hand
and though the chill air makes me catch my breath
the wind whispers, friend, remember your death.
And I feel so deeply, so wildly alive
as I climb the hill, slight burn in my thighs
but I cannot pretend I am deaf
as the wind whispers soft, remember your death.
The Roman generals had their slaves
whisper to them in their moments of greatness,
remember your death—even as the crowds cheered—
to help them remember be humble, be here.
And the wind whispers yes, whispers yes to me.
And reminds me to take each step gratefully.
Remember your death, it says. Live now.
And with every step, though I don’t know to whom,
I say thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you.
Dear Frost That Will Crack My Bones,
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged acceptance, death, frost, love, poem, poetry on July 31, 2018| Leave a Comment »
Think of the frost that will crack our bones eventually
—Tom Hennen, “Love for Other Things”
Before I can love you, I hate you.
Because the frothy pink of the milkweed
and the monarch who travels thousands of miles
just to feed there. Because the dark leaves
of soybeans, millions of green hearts
per acre. Because ripe blueberries
without a hint of pucker. Because
of the touch of the man who loves me.
Because the cool breeze on my bare arms.
But to love is to open the circle
of what is beloved, to offer my attention
to the concert of crickets and crows,
to the proliferation of box elder beetles,
the weeds that infiltrate the field. Sound
of lawn mowers, jackhammers, swarm
of mosquitoes. Stench of Sulphur. Deep
snows that bury the drive.
And love says why stop there? Widen
the circle to toxic sludge. Yellow jackets.
Earwigs. Freezing sideways sleet. Men
with guns and hate in their stare. Girls
who spit disdain. And the pain
that steals sleep. And the pain
that never leaves. And the pain
that would obliterate every bright thing,
and in so doing, reveal what is most precious—
this ability to love. To love despite.
To love regardless. To love. To love
what I hate, even you, frost that will crack
my bones. Will you not be my final teacher
in how to offer my attention? Will you
not be my last great love?