“For MJ”
We said our farewells to you
Over the weekend
Listened to elegant words
About you
And by you
The subtle jazz tones of a saxophone
Blown across the mountainside
Where we gathered
Wind rustling your favorite
Trees while a caterpillar
Slowly made the long journey
Past my feet
And a white butterfly
Caught the sun
Just right on its wings
And a honey bee
Sought some of the sweetness
Lost in your passing
Nothing to mar the blue
Sky above but our
Fading tears
My infant son
Has been asleep
In my arms
In the rocking chair
For almost ten
Minutes
And I could
Put him back
Into his bed
With his clean sheets
And a dry diaper
And warm pajamas
And a few minutes to
Go until his mother
Can come in
From work in
The office (garage)
To feed him
But I think
That I’ll just sit
Here and hold
Him in my arms
For just another
Quiet
Moment
While the world
Spins
On.
It’s not really an “extra” day, I
Know, but there’s something
Unbelievably special about
One extra night falling asleep
Next to you.
You
are allowed
to write things
that are not
Profound
“Hallowe’en”
In distant times, it is said,
People would gather to
Be near to one another on
A cold night, and reflect
On the warmth of those
They had said their final
Farewells to many years
Before.
And on that cold night,
Halfway through the fall,
We remember those no
Longer with us, and we
Bid them to come near,
That we might learn
From them even in
Absentia.
My truth is my own,
And if you cannot
Open your mind to a
Reality that is vastly
Different than the one that
You have always known,
Then perhaps, dearest reader, you
May find that these
Tales are not for you.
If I could, I would always
Walk beside you, not
Holding your hand, but
Simply being there, to
Let you know that I’m
There when you need me.
So much of what my own
Parents said and did now
Makes sense to me, when
I see you taking those
First, cautious, unaided steps
Toward my outstretched hand.
But the best thing that I can
Do is teach you to always
Strive to be kind in a
World that feels more cruel
Now than when I stood,
Aided by my own father’s hands.
We often talk, mostly in a
Joking manner, about how
We would like to drink
From the skulls of our
Enemies,
And leaving aside for a
Moment, the practicality
Of just such behavior,
Would it not be a more
Poignant act, albeit less
Intimidating, to do so
From the skull of a
Friend?
You say
That you want a
Poem,
But that it can’t be
Political. That it can’t
Be about my
Identity, about who I
Choose to love,
About how I feel.
You say
That you want a
Poem,
But it shouldn’t
Attack those in power,
That it should be
Passive, peaceful,
About unity, despite
Your support for those
Who would divide
Us
Me
You.
You say
That you want a
Poem,
But it shouldn’t
Include lines about the
Ways in which I
Have been erased,
In which my friends and
Loved ones and
Chosen family have
Been ignored or betrayed.
You say
That you want a
Poem,
But it shouldn’t
Reflect on the life
I’ve lived or the
Death
That I’ve seen,
Felt,
Held in my hand,
A small
Fragment of grief
Beyond description.
You say
That you want a
Poem,
But you don’t
Seem to actually
Know what
Poetry
Is.
I know that the winters
Seem hard and cold, and
I know that the dark
Seems endless.
Remember that wheat is
Planted before the winter,
And awaits the freeze
That it might sprout in
Spring.
The Swords of the Ancients 