Requiem

The lady in that garden sings
Her dirge among the rose
and lily
It astounds that she mourns yet
In the midst of fruit and flower
Her song, it hurts,
and comes from hurt
What pain has been her muse?
The air itself, lumbers so
With the burden of her cries—
And the weight of tears
Which heaven seek, this awful song of loss.

The flowers, in their season, die
But the lady doesn’t see.
She plants herself
In the soil
and sings to their ghosts.

The Cradle

Put me in a silk-lined cradle
with a heavy lid,
to keep out noise and light
and bugs that bite.
Somewhere I can rest my bones
and sleep the length
of my journey home.

Return me to
an earthen womb
when there’s nothing left
but my name in stone.

Lay my under landscaped lawns
and bending trees,
and offered flowers
I’ll never see.

Come to see me, now and then—
if you can find me
among the many
who’ve withered in their
silk lined cradles—
For we are rows and rows
under watchful crows
in this darker nursery
where the settling earth
sings to sleep
the newest of her
swaddled foundlings.

Opportunists

What keeps flies from
nesting in my flesh?
Do they wait nearby, should
Mors dispatch?
How do they know
that I’m just asleep?
To them, does death
not look like this?

When that hour
overtakes me—
the smell of something
not alive will
waft by scores of
hungry vermin.
Defenseless, I
seem to sleep.

Insulted nevermore by this, nor
by the dirt thrown on my face; let
greedy maggots take their fill.
When flies are born,
the beetles come.

Trenches

My bullet-proof heart
is securely in place,
so I march out the door
with today’s allotted courage.
Just like a soldier
mindful of cadence,
I step to the dol-drum
of my daily duty.
Then five o’clock comes
and all casualties—counted,
I return home once more
and wait for a medal.

Published at Wordlust : Paperfetish, 6-17-2005

Antitdote

Would tears dilute
Death’s toxic drink
and restore you wholly
to life on earth?

Could Heaven be moved
by pitiful cries
to let you float
back down to me?

Which pleading words
would best convince
cruel Destiny
that I need you more?

Who knows how grieved
are my dreams at night?
Your visits are brief,
then morning intrudes.

Why was I
left behind
to forever mourn
the theft of you?

Who knows better
the dearness of
that one good man,
than a fatherless daughter?

Published at Wordlust : Paperfetish, May 27, 2005