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Peace And Permission Sallow was the moon on the eve of her death; skeletal trees spoke not of forebode. Upon barren Earth, spect’ral leaves gasped and shuddered, ne’er to betray their secrets untold. In a shadowy room, grey curtains rustled like apparitions inviting the wind, And a door was propp’d open in hopes of a caller for solace or heed to this end. On a bed of coarse linens, her gaunt figure lay with a simple quilt-cover atop. Her time-weary breast sounded the drone of her heart, and she prayed for its beating to stop. Beside her sparse bed, a window half-open, (threatening the dim lamp nearby) Allowed in an issue from an ancient oak that traveled on a winter’s sigh. The silent intruder found rest on her hand, and its dry feath’ry load brought a stir— Sheer eyelids drew back to reveal agate eyes; a moment passed as vision came to her. Her once-dexterous hand now trembled and pained but she held the leaf closer to see it: She regarded its form, unchanged by demise and bitter winds assaulting to free it. She’d seen its like, in the summer now gone, with life coursing through supple veins; It had clung to its nurture, as had all before it, but Life—as its abundance—wanes. But what’s this at the core of the seeming fossil? A breast that holds fast its complexion! ‘Though altered by season and wounded by time, the soul gave up no hue to recession. So she saw that her own heart had not been discolor’d; with the leaf, she let go her doubt. In the shadowy room, grey curtains rustled; untended the light was blown out. Nov94 |
| I think many people may have a fascination with Death. It is the ultimate unknown. Those with Faith may have less trepidation about what will happen when Life ends, but no one can know with absolute certainty what lies in store for our bodie ne before us. |
| I think many people may have a fascination with Death. It is the ultimate unknown. Those with Faith may have less trepidation about what will happen when Life ends, but no one can know with absolute certainty what lies in store for our bodies and spirits. I have considered my own Death on many occasions, and have even made a few attempts at first-hand discovery. As might have been apparent in "Journeys of the Mind--A narrow path to tread," I have experienced periods of profound and unrelenting depression, during which thoughts of Death and dying were constant and tortuous. Ironically, many of what I now consider my best poetic works are a result of those times. The first work on this page, "Epitaph," is what I hope will appear on my memorial plaque some day. The second poem, "Mirrors," is about my grandfather and my feelings regarding the nursing home where he spent his final years. As it happened, I had worked in that same nursing home, and it had a lasting effect on me: it taught me the importance of respect and the inherent value of all people--even those who have been shut away and forgotten. "Peace and Permission" took quite a while to come together; while it is about an old woman's solitary Death, it has a message of hope and self-satisfaction. There is such tragedy in the fact that our society allows its elderly to become "ghosts" even before their Deaths. Finally, the poem "Rest In Peace" is further commentary on our "throw-away" society. It speaks of growing old, the passing of time, and the depreciation of Life and the memories and legacies of those who have gone before us. |
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| Journeys Without Destination |
Epitaph A cloud ruled by a fickle wind A child led by a wiser friend Comes this peace, a welcome end Degree of unknown evident When silence becomes eloquent An ending all—and none—lament A flower drowned by good intention Cursed and blessed by intervention And great feats too trivial to mention Too slow the progress of hurried pace Once written, this page, none can erase Another poet takes the place… Jan96 |
Mirrors They reach out with thin-skinned hands: knotted fingers—gnarled and useless— youthful skill lost. Overcast eyes regard my misty shadow as I pass, but they don’t see my eyes turn— first down, then away. The coolness of aseptic-colored walls envelops my humanity, and the stench of sterility overtakes my senses. Impervious to silent pleas from wheeled perches lining the way, I maintain my path. Only one of these animated apparitions does not summon me: The ashen-haired head bows, hung from the aged frame of this weary spirit. In his narrow lap, a tattered and faded crimson ribbon rests between the brittle pages of an ancient King James. Heavy spectacles hang, unused by clouded eyes, from the nose which— with the rest of these leathery features— sags, like thick paint dripping from an abandoned masterpiece. I kneel beside the dozing figure and curl my hand gently around a frail, once-callused hand which rests atop the open Bible. My faint touch has roused him, and he slowly lifts his head. Like the autumn sun, revealed as clouds of confusion move reluctantly aside, Recognition illuminates his face. A thin smile cracks his aged countenance as his colorless eyes focus. I swallow hard against love and uneasiness. “Hi, Grandpa…” Original 9July88 Edits 1994 1996 |
| I think many people may have a fascination with Death. It is the ultimate unknown. Those with Faith may have less trepidation about what will happen when Life ends, but no one can know with absolute certainty what lies in store for our bodies and spirits. I have considered my own Death on many occasions, and have even made a few attempts at first-hand discovery. As might have been apparent in "Journeys of the Mind--A narrow path to tread," I have experienced periods of profound and unrelenting depression, during which thoughts of Death and dying were constant and tortuous. Ironically, many of what I now consider my best poetic works are a result of those times. The first work on this page, "Epitaph," is what I hope will appear on my memorial plaque some day. The second poem, "Mirrors," is about my grandfather and my feelings regarding the nursing home where he spent his final years. As it happened, I had worked in that same nursing home, and it had a lasting effect on me: it taught me the importance of respect and the inherent value of all people--even those who have been shut away and forgotten. "Peace and Permission" took quite a while to come together; while it is about an old woman's solitary Death, it has a message of hope and self-satisfaction. There is such tragedy in the fact that our society allows its elderly to become "ghosts" even before their Deaths. Finally, the poem "Rest In Peace" is further commentary on our "throw-away" society. It speaks of growing old, the passing of time, and the depreciation of Life and the memories and legacies of those who have gone before us. |
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| "Peace and Permission" 2001 |
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