it was suicide i think you willed yourself to die when all the remedies were untenable — or so you thought our lives have devolved into one pointless exercise an attempt to avoid the inescapable pain and now i realize that joy and love are inscribed indelibly on opposing sides of suffering two faces on a coin spinning so fast one cannot discriminate loving pain suffering joy i have heard that those who have great capacity for ecstasy are those who suffer most
This is not the poem I wished to write. You let go, gave up the fight (make no mistake, it is a fight — not some grasping self-centered fear of sinking into the night — but defiance of that which should not be). To embrace that dark reality cannot be despised; but to give up hope so long before? You broke my heart. You were the one who stood between, holding our frayed, unraveled ends together. You were the fulcrum and balance that kept us in perspective. How was it, then, that you lost yours? You weren’t supposed to go this way. We could not even say goodbye.
You convinced me faith was intellect: to be prepared to deal with the skeptic. So, I studied to show myself approved and equal to the task — as if God needed me to justify or to explain who or how or why he was; unholy fool that I was. And there you towered, no one’s fool…
tiny feathered spirit why so close to my house your plumage hides you well in the eavesdrop that lies below my rotted windowsill you must take care because my cat is on the prowl and he is not overfond of loose lips and bitter beaks
At first, the years began to trudge; one day marched into the next with agonizing slothfulness.
My birthdays never seemed to come: anticipation — growing pains. Then everything seemed to change. I do not know how or when, only that the pages of the calendar began to turn with increased velocity until twelve months could fit into a three-by-two laminate card. Now I am old. From this side my years stretch backward, far beyond my day of birth and long before my dad learned how to fly — before a horse was shot out underneath my forebear in the Civil War.
Life is the river that flows both ways without end and in the end it turns out that we’re all old souls.