breath and bones, heaps of walking ash
burned badly by life. the skin is an urn
lined with scenes and scars. smoldering
fires flame within as we exhale. smoke
dissipates slowly toward the silent stars.
Author: Anthony
waiting
what was it like for him
those few days when he slipped
somewhere beyond our universe,
peering into it somehow
as a child admires a snow globe,
lifts it, shakes it for a moment,
and waits for the exact time
to reappear within the chaos?
no absolution
the lips of the dead
whisper no final words.
no comfort, no signal
of pain or rest. no parting
blessing or curse. only
the child’s vacant eyes
that never saw it coming.
– written after parkland
Postscript – Seamus Heaney
One of my favorite poems by Seamus Heaney.
Postscript
And some time make the time to drive out west
Into County Clare, along the Flaggy Shore,
In September or October, when the wind
And the light are working off each other
So that the ocean on one side is wild
With foam and glitter, and inland among stones
The surface of a slate-grey lake is lit
By the earthed lightning of a flock of swans,
Their feathers roughed and ruffling, white on white,
Their fully grown headstrong-looking heads
Tucked or cresting or busy underwater.
Useless to think you’ll park and capture it
More thoroughly. You are neither here nor there,
A hurry through which known and strange things pass
As big soft buffetings come at the car sideways
And catch the heart off guard and blow it open.
Postscript was first published in The Irish Times. From Opened Ground: Selected Poems 1966-1996 by Seamus Heaney. © 1998 by Seamus Heaney.
visitation
i.
you are here and still
gone at the same time.
a whisper noticed only
as a brush of breath
skims across the skin.
ii.
loss is palpable,
resonant like ghosts
wandering invisibly
through the soul.
phantom reminders
never quite fading
completely away.
iii.
solitude holds peace
and unrest equally.
a meeting ground
where imperfection
encounters mercy.
Nocturne
She poured the light
into the shadows
to give the day
a place to rest.
Now all is dark
except the flecks
of silver stranded
in the sky.
She ran away
to another galaxy,
where, I imagine,
someone waits
in silence, like me,
wondering if she
will ever return.
Boxes
Now it is clear that he is
the object of his anger.
Never quite good enough
for attention or praise
from others or himself.
Enclosed in a small box
he peers through a tiny hole
at all that is marvelous
in the world, knowing he will
never be enough. Just beyond
what he can see, carefully
placed, are rows upon rows
of boxes whose captives stand
bewildered by the winter sky.
backtrack
i shut everything down during the storm,
never quite recovering anything. so i keep
digging, searching, following the trail back
through the wound, through the pain, through
questions that have no answers. revisit the place
somehow. retrace the steps of sorrow and excavate
that life from the past – reconnect – have mercy upon
the soul laboring beneath the burden of my expectations.
words and poetry
no one reads
free books
of poetry. not
even the gem
in the bargain
bin. discounted
words abound
in the realm
of free hate
speech. words
are spewed,
but poetry is
set to the music
of setting suns.
the rest
Embed from Getty Images
you are an iceberg
hidden by a night
without stars. yet
i search the dark
waters in the fog,
waiting to collide
and slowly sink
into the silent sea.
Awaiting the Images 