Final Flight as the Fog becomes Night
for
David Hayden
A
matter of days, a
matter of seconds
to descend into the ever long sleep we face
when the clock reaches its final count.
One weekend can bring
an end to life
so precious and fragile in the tempted
wind’s course.
David, a coach, instructor, author, father, and husband
claimed by the heart he nursed since
the widow-maker created a
new plan.
Kobe, a man made from men like
David,
who take the clay of boys &
mold
with many years’ persistence and commitment
along a heart that loved
and did it well
in mellow temperament.
Descension,
yes,
we are all
low
in
this period.
I’m sure my fallen friend would
have sighed
upon taking in the news of Bryant’s chopper
down on its last
route to LA for his daughter’s game.
This detour to maintain the body
instead of two hours
stuck in bumper to bumper traffic via
automobile.
Despite the cash flow, he, his
daughter, and seven others
rest in the ground
due to a wall
of fog;
one of which seems to have drifted
to our state and taken
not only residence but more residents as
well.
I
can’t
help but see
the image
of fathers holding
their daughters while
flames grab ahold of
them, knowing
this is the
end, & there’s
nothing that can be done.
Another shot of a
daughter with her
hand placed
on her father’s
chest as he
takes his final
breath
haunts me as we are at least 10:0 against
death with no
free throws left to help
tie up the
score.
Where
is
my
pep
talk in this hour
when I am in need of guidance as
my mother
takes flight in the fog
of the unknown battle
she fights at
this very moment?
The tumor, it
may grow like the
fog,
and so we must
take it out and prepare
for what comes next just
like Hayden did
when he heard
a knock at
the door
back in 2012
when many thought,
this
could
be
the
end.
I’m part optimist, part
realist;
I don’t want to
write my mother off,
but all options must be
considered,
for I don’t like
surprises.
These foggy
days
see me begging
for
the sun.
The
Fourth Horseman
for Joseph Fulkerson
There’s a hodgepodge of go-getters
sifting through this literary scene
like drowning men doing what they can
to gather attention from the others.
You have those who try too hard,
flailing their arms & ultimately succumbing
to the waves rejection brings
without forgiveness.
Then you have those who breathe
with the calmest of demeanors
while floating on the inevitable high
of their own majestic creativity.
I
know a man so prolific not even
the cockroaches that’ll survive us all
will ever be able to finish what he’s started
long before man’s catastrophic ruin.
He’s one of three poets I’d ride with into the fire
to entertain & enlighten those
content with their own destiny
before smoke or flames consume them.
The
Knottseau Well
There was a time when I stood guard / like one of those Brits in their
furry hats / without any
emotion / just doing my duty / as a good gentleman should / never looking
elsewhere / but
straight ahead of me / The cruelest taunts / always failed to break / my gaze /
with posture /
not unlike the great / rustic cross / which held / the alleged messiah / long
before / this time /
One afternoon / while busy / at work / a storm cloud blew / it pushed me / into
the Knottseau /
Well where / the not so well / often dwell / I thought / I knew all / the
tricks / on how to escape,
but it seems / that I may have been / in this place / for longer / than I think
/ All around me
there are / weeping shadows / endless rain / no hope to make / the climb / It’s
much too steep /
even for the most / experienced climber / of which / I thought I was / The well
fills / and it fills
with the tears / of the crying / and undying / sorrow / Another man / down in
this well / asked
me / Don’t you know / you did this / to yourself? / like
my hands / held the shovel / that dug
this hole / we both / find ourselves / That’s when / my mind went / blank / for
a brief period /
I came to / with the man / lying / on the bottom / I noticed / that I am /
still digging/ the hole.
TRAUM(A)
for
John Berryman
Surface
tension bellows a soft echo of muffled ruffles when a body hits the water
at full speed from the buildup one towering bridge standing over seventy feet
can offer a professor whose intelligent mind feels reduced to nothing but a
nuisance.
Some students say they saw Berryman wave as he descended toward sweet relief
almost in celebration of the chapter to come in his grand farewell to the
witnesses.
Henry and Mr. Bones would weep & not sleep for a hundred years for the
loss.
I have this dream of meeting the dead poets who urge me to confess my own
in formal and free verse for others who have written notes hidden to be found
by loved ones or respected peers. My pieces echo, “I didn’t. And I didn’t.”
They can’t fire us for we are the choosers in this game of outcomes where
all must roll the dice like Plath, Sexton, Snodgrass, & Lowell to see
how long one must endure the cycle which only ends with the inevitable black.
A constant worry that only subsides when the host ceases to care is the mess
the body leaves after trauma has been inflicted upon it to free the caged bird
whose voice can no longer sing the songs poets hoped would never fade to
silence.
Us artistic types seem to live fast and die way before biology tends to let
expire,
and yet, if we didn’t cultivate a lifetime’s worth of beautiful expression to
fight
all that tears society down daily, who else would offer to bear the crushing
weight?
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