"Don't put things off…it may be later than you think."
Check out previous Summertime Rhymes posts here
“When We Were Immortal”
There was a time when we were immortal.
Fresh, brand new.
Born into youth.
Excited for lazy pleasures and long days.
Summer adventures,
Christmases.
Depending on the strength of the gods surrounding us.
We could do anything and seemed robust.
Time distorted the truth,
and aided in our fall.
What once defied the setting sun,
grew less with each passing year.
Until, finally the world swallowed the moments whole.
There was a time high on the mountain,
when living seemed forever.
It was remarkable, but short lived.
Today marks the bittersweet anniversary of my maternal Uncle Kevin’s death. He is sorely missed, and I do my best to honor his memory as much as I can. I’ve added some links below to other poems and posts related to him, that I’ve written in the last year. It think it only fitting that he makes the ProCrasstheNation 2018 Advent Calendar. When I think of an Advent Calendar, I think of looking forward to something, and now in a sense, looking back. There was a lot of mystery behind Uncle Kev’s doors. He was easy to know, but at times kept his cards close to the vest. Thinking fondly of the many ways in which he enriched my life. He lived a life of patience and tact, and used these talents to teach his young niece and nephew game theory, or as he called it “STRAGEDY” There is many a night when I look at an empty cribbage board and smile within the glow of the memory it brings forth. There are many gifts in life that we are lucky enough to receive, but it is entirely true, that the gift of time is the most precious. Kev gave us as much time as we needed or wanted.
If you liked this post…perhaps these might appeal to you as well: New England Giant, POEMVEMBER 2018-DAY 8: “A GIANT AMONG MEN”
There are sounds in graveyards.
Earthen sounds of sorrow and surrender.
Sonic suppositions and wailing gypsies.
Contemplative gorge.
Terror of impermanence.
An impasse, but not passive.
Hang around long enough and you train your ears to listen.
On the fringe of life, abutting, and right up against it.
A city of ruins, leading paths to a suburban eternity.
Invited patience sublimates itself to the alpha regret.
Sinister doubts press courage from beating hearts.
The busy silence teases out the denied emotions of Faustian bargains.
Legions of lifeless bones, marked by dust and stone.
A marathon sprint to stillness.
Perpetual motion, dispatched to be oblivion.
Authoritative immense silence speaking volumes to those not willing to look.
A distant buzz of lawn-grooming engines, drones on.
A lulling drone; consistent.
Cars passing by on the periphery, allowing measurable distance to be heard.
Rushing toward a graver situation.
Whistling past the graveyard.
Tenants without complaints, barely registering.
Rotting remains, animate the six-feet deep dioramas of death beneath our feet.
Worms, et al, explore yawning canvases.
A subterranean bacchanalia.
Mourner’s tears ant farm tunnels in the shoveled earth.
This offends the dead, but no one understands why?
Perhaps grief humors the living, despite the noise of the dead.
Abutting a frenzy of dancing air,
Petals and leaves propel themselves still.
Potted points of oxygen emissions.
Nature dovetails with man made structures.
Breaking left and right,
Aboveish and belowish.
Invisible force,
Much like gravity,
But not as omnipresent.
A delicious chill leaks down my back and puckers my cheeks.
The time of seasonal consistency approaches its end.
Onward to the new death,
And dying things.
That somehow make it their business to appear at a later time.
“Breakneck Speed”
It’s funny how teaching your kids to ride a bike, can start with death.
Training wheels squared,
upon a flat cement space.
Enclosed from busy streets.
Helmets, elbow pads, and knee pads.
Just put them on the bikes, and go.
Around the schoolyard square.
Being pulled into the gravitational reality of a pigeon corpse.
Monument gray, tits up, broken neck.
It must have flown into one of the eighty windows above the school entrance.
Taking precautions to keep the children from harm, but facing down an inadequate explanation of death.
Just fixed there on the spot, full view.
A fly surveying the scene.
Kids steering the handlebars of their bikes to avoid the pigeon corpse.
I myself, standing by, hoping they don’t maliciously drive over the broken bird for jest.
They didn’t.
Still gentle. World has not touched them yet.
Or, maybe this the first grazing shot.
The circuit repeated, over and over.
Joy in learning new things.
Sadness in learning new things.
Driving eager with breakneck speed.
Can’t keep them from flying into windows.
There are too goddamned many.
A very special thanks to Jared Nownes for suggesting: Dead Celebrity Poem=Bourdain
Fellow Poet extraordinaire, Jared Nownes, can be found squirreling away words of wisdom and flights of madness on his blog “Sustantivos” you must go check it out.
40/40: Summer Poem Slam-a-bam is a ongoing project in which people have joined me for 40 days and 40 nights of on-demand poetry. They have submitted the concepts, ideas, and subjects; I’ve done the rest.
“My Tired”
My tired stretches outward, and underwhelms.
Staunch narcoleptics, snoring pots and pans to beat the band.
Slumber robs youth of steady confidence.
Methodical metronome,
cadence of an old age home,
waiting to retire.
Sweaty yellow pillowcases carry the weight of the world.
Quiet, tenderest of moments, forgotten when memories are remembered.
Life, per seek, per chance, a dream of waking sleep.
Lost, recovered? Abruptly.
Dream-weaving steampunk.
Eyelids sealed, a treasure trunk.
Deep oscillating breath,
skirts the breadth of death.
“ignominy”
Idols fall at the fevered pace of fake news announcements.
Ideas brand you as dangerous.
Dialogue dry-well, drywalled in.
Immovable position.
Paralyzed by fear.
Innocence becomes the lie it always was.
Ignorance is heralded,
especially when wrapped in arrogance and denial.
There is no middle ground.
Just extreme extremism extremely extant.
Order is caving and leaving on chartered flights, and squirreled in the hold of shipping containers.
Those that feel comfort within the framework that a society provides, have no conception, that that luxury is only provided by that which they hold in contempt.
Consequence is gaining.
Ignorance is not bliss, but a precursor to suffering.
The middle will not hold, unless good people stop listening to those that sow doubt.
The philosophers are extinct, and their ashes have been eaten gluttonous by apologists that are in love with their zeal.
I sit out in the open road, hoping that when the collapse comes, I can see that sinister look of recognition dress the faces of the smug.
A recognition that liberty is just another illusion in the tent of Abraham.
Institutional ignominy delivered on target by drowning drones.
Driven mad, by madmen, and the most sincerely irrational and well-meaning people.
“Not to be macabre, but…”
I’m tired and unfinished,
and I noticed,
that when I thought of calling you,
to kill time,
I couldn’t.
Because, you are dead.
Then I thought of someone else,
the same someone I always think of when I want to talk to you and I can’t.
You know, the person I ultimately end up trying to call,
when you aren’t available.
But, that person, is also now dead.
I make calls that go to voicemails that are never answered.
Living and dead.
Screened, and unattended.
Voicemail box set up, but forever unclaimed.
Kind of wish that I had picked up more often,
now that I come to think of it.
It’s funny how life appears busy,
until it isn’t.
It’s a little known fact,
that prayers now go directly to voicemail.
