Belated Words

Write On!

Tag: memorial

  • memorial

    Separation is the state of final
acknowledgement of the absolute.
Existing in relation to all, you cannot
complete yourself but we will be here,
remembering your name, speaking humbly,
offering colorful ribbons and tears.

Sacrifice is the act, the act that ends.
Who made the choice is not the point to argue;
you were chosen or made the choice yourself.
Whether the cause was just or not or moot,
something was required and you were loss.
Now, you  have that knowing that eludes us.

Placated, soothed by ritualistic words,
we read hollow text and embarrassed by
uncouth grief and the shriek of loss we pray,
speaking of the Ultimate Sacrifice;
we whisper the name of that demigod.
Here….we will never have that knowing.

Guilt is the word, the word that tells;
leaving no room for elaboration.
We wrap your bones with no dreams in
The Cave of the Devoured Prolifics.
On occasion, we hear their soft clacking;
lighting candles, we appease with chants.


This is a reblog of an old poem which I am sadly reminded of every year.

  • The Visitation: For Fathers Day

    I held my father’s hand once more last night, but only in a dream.  
I did not see his face or hear his voice or recognize a nod, but his 
ever-gentleness stood to sooth my unease of muddled senses.
Almost thirty quick years have gone since I stood by his bed.
Did I, at first, hold his hand? A white cloth, folded in half, 
lay over his mouth for moisture; rare tears traced crow’s-feet
to his pillow and I, new to dying, wondered if he cried from fear.  
But through the muffling wetness, struggling not to sob,
“Your mother…”  And then I understood, “I will take care of her.” 
I promised; only then…I remember, now…did I take his hand.
The hand I held last night was not that of thirty years before;
his hands, in life, had the square bluntness of his days of labor.
Always, he carried a pocketknife to turn the grease and grit 
from beneath his nails into minute, curled strings of grime. 
The hand I held in my dream was only his because I just knew 
and not recognition by touch; the hand I held was feminine,
covered with the sheltered, thin skin of one needing protection.
I’ve pondered the paradox all day, wondering why the hand
was his, but not; time could not have altered to such extreme,
a touch etched in memory.  Believing only in our faulty minds,
I can only conclude that I, so desiring that my father
might know I have kept my promise, conjured a dream, 
a visitation; the hand I knew as his is my mother’s I hold today.

This is a re-post from years ago; a memory of the time my father was dying in 1982.

  • In Memory of George

    George

    You looked like a clay/mockup you,

    a rough portrait study bust devoid

    of hair and beard, lying in that coffin,

    swaddled in unfamiliar satin and suit.

    •

    Without hair, your nose stood out,

    pitted, more bulbous than I recalled,

    scarred where the dog bull-baited

    you while you, on all fours, earned

    a hard day’s wage laying carpet.

    •

    You were hardly you, even discounting death,

    without your ginger hair and beard;

    a small Sasquatch some have joked;

    some with affection; others cruelly.

    Your soul mirrored only the gentlest

    of beast to me.  At  M’s graduation

    in a too small jacket & wrinkled tie,

    slicked red hair and beard awry you

    drew looks even in our red-neck town.

    I remember you above all others;

    you blessed our hearts by being there.

    •

    The preacher couldn’t help but mention

    your “troubled life” as if perfection was just

    a matter of choice and our duty was to judge.

    He seemed to care little of your nature;

    if only he had recalled your soft mumbling

    voice, strangely soothing to my ears,

    or your eyes’ sparkle hidden now behind

    sealed lids, or your generous heart and smile.

    •

    We, the ones that love you, gathered

    to stand and wave as you took one last

    glance at this often cruel world with an

    over-the-shoulder smile and slipped

    into the welcoming, singing trees.

    ♥

  • Memorial

    Separation is the state of final

    acknowledgement of the absolute.

    Existing in relation to all, you cannot

    complete yourself but we will be here,

    remembering your name, speaking humbly,

    offering colorful ribbons and tears.

    •

    Sacrifice is the act, the act that ends.

    Who made the choice is not the point to argue;

    you were chosen or made the choice yourself.

    Whether the cause was just or not or moot,

    something was required and you were loss.

    Now, you  have that knowing that eludes us.

    •

    Placated, soothed by ritualistic words,

    we read hollow text and embarrassed by

    uncouth grief and the shriek of loss we pray,

    speaking of the Ultimate Sacrifice;

    we whisper the name of that demigod.

    Here….we will never have that knowing.

    •

    Guilt is the word, the word that tells,

    leaving no room for elaboration.

    We wrap and place your bones with no dreams in

    The Cave of the Devoured Prolifics.

    On occasion, we hear their soft clacking;

    lighting short candles, we appease with chants.