death and dying poetry

Failing 

Necessary evil, failure.  
Learning from mistakes
Like lying and broken bones
The body breaks down 
And cries for more.
In this case tears
Hung high inside a bag
Delivered through a tube 
Poking into my chest 
Plugged in with a needle.
Giggling to myself 
“Not a nipple”
Laughters ripple effect 
Spans out amongst the others 
And now everyone’s 
Going to get in trouble.

But it’s my fault 
No one but me 
Got me in this mess,
Or have they? Because
It’s an art:
Learning recreational 
Cursing, lying and
Running away from home.
My growling hunger 
Turns to fear.
That’s where  
Boredom hides.
As we seek home again
The place one cannot return.
Like a library book 
With a Dewey decimal card
I’m no longer on file.
Suppose I stole the title.

Before dark I’m matchless
With no anger left to burn
So I return. 
But it’s never the same
New people new names.
Strangers turn me away
That crazy woman’s back
She doesn’t live here 
Not anymore.
The address I remember: 
Only my own body.
Dirty gray cumulus clouds
Reach the places where
Shame grows. Right there
On the test not surprisingly 
Cirrus streaking 
Shocking the dusk
Into color of  embarrassment and
Of cheeks slapped pink
For blue words 
We try on for fit
But they fall off of our
Small bones too big 
To not know
To small to talk shit.

Instead of daisies 
In my mind the 
Fertile soil hardened  
Into my imagination now 
Rusty colored clay.
Growing up worthy of
A head, once 
Covered in hair 
Jumping on a trampoline 
Without a net 
Be cautious of curls.
Now straight as
a cactus prickly as
a crown of new cowlicks 
The color of
shock and shame.
Green and indigo 
But not what I thought
Just a day ago.

Everyday failure:
Unthreaded needles
Stocking runs unearned
Continue up the thigh
Showing the quality 
Of bare legs 
With purple webs 
Becoming ugly 
And weak.
Sometimes my mistakes 
Weigh like 
Lead sinks, an umpire 
Metal but not much ore 
Certainly no gold or platinum.
My pick axe and 
Shovel, sieve ad 
Headlight 
Mocking the brave 
Fish that live in
Darkness so ink black
They willed themselves 
A headlamp on 
Their hard hats. Darwin 
Had his way of
Plumbing the breaches of 
My Grace in the name 
Of the father who
Died with experience
My tribe hid
It’s treasure in
Broken Russian birds.
My genes unzipped
Finally to reveal
The ladder had fallen
Apart at the rung 
Where I slipped.

Principally, I deserve 
No less than 
Expulsion from the school
Of this life and 
Of the race of humans.
I have lost.

Soul Drunk 

“Don’t wait” the first 
Invitation*, states.
Subject and verb meant
What I heard: it’s my turn.
These wasted times,
My healthy days numbered 
Counting crows in a line.
Life and death married 
And birthed you together 
So don’t wait for 
Tonight or for daylight  
When winds kick up a mess
Of better yesterdays.
Sour mash in a dirty glass 
Ice diluting the burning
Hoarse throats from thirst
So deserted, beyond quenching.
Straddling my legs up to the bar
And wild wet eyes find 
You outside of the frames 
pictures -you took them, too. 
Stored in musty boxes
In basements and attics  
All dressed up, obnoxious
When glasses obscured by
Bottle blondes divorced and lonely. 
Time in the mind only reminds 
Us of what no longer stabs at
Our hearts. Funny things:
Gene’s helixes and a pine’s cones
All the sacred plans for galaxies 
Spun Nautilus shells and 
The ringing bells in my ears. 
Yet some refuse any sound
Like the dying refuse food.

Outside nature awaits and what sings
Of life alone in the flutter.
Nudging the willow tree’s long locks
A hummingbird wings create unrest.
Crying tiny drops of firelight
Candles leave wax rings
Worn into wood, married by ownership
And warning our bodies
in the dusk’s lazy sun adrift the sea
Winking goodbye as it hides for the night.
At home we take the complaints of stuttering billy goats
Where clamorous hens kick
At the roosters who forgot a nest
Or two. What about me?

It’s the way we all feel 
Have they no idea 
our children fled the nest -
Leaving their rooms full  
Of their trophies 
While we wait to sleep  
In fitted sheets 
Dug in graveyards with 
Names like Star of David.
Smoothed over blue grass grown
Watching the dead proves
Equally as boring.
It doesn’t mean a thing
I mean that nothing was meant by it:
To say that at birth  
We become life and death, as one
Intertwined together. 
Growing taller, spinning 
Until we grow dizzy and 
Giggling in the know 
Of moment we will fall
Carefully goes the innocence 
Spiraling, radiating out
Of our mouths the 
breath of love itself.
Rejoiced in our screams and cries.

A call to our guilty conscience 
That wears heavy on our bones
Asking again to what ever we’ve 
Said no. Must we unpack and 
Put their guilt in the pantry 
Set the table with the China  
The sheets hang out in the 
Golden dusty fields 
Collecting the scent of 
Late sunlight in baskets 
After hanging up on the lines 
With the rest of the whites
Faded and drying we remain 
Dying in the sky tidally locked
Like the moon to the earth 
And never once asking 
For more than a simple goodbye 
“One day we will meet again”
Though I never have 
Known you in your own skin
Only under layered pelts
Like laundry hanging from your deserted bones. 

Dare we share the bond 
That darkness cannot control? 
Isn’t that a woman’s fate: 
to allow men to drink
Until they drain our souls?

*from Frank Ostaseski’s The Five Invitations, highly recommended on audio book as read by the Author. 
“Don’t wait,” is the first invitation. One cannot live their entire life or tell all those they love how they feel, or forgive even yourself of any pain; it’s never too late, however.
Quote

Buying Time 

Impossible: 
To find the cash
For buying time.
Oranges, sweet crude
Coffee, corn,
Commodities traders
Delisted love and friendship 
Health and fathers.
The buying chits line 
The exchange floor
Like clothing once 
In the bedroom.
Proof money can’t 
Buy love.

In department stores
Perfumed and made up
Clerks compartmentalize
Stuffed emotions and 
Big wide-eyed bears
Into shopping bags. 
Leaving through 
A glass revolving door 
Tumbling onto the gray 
Segments of sidewalk 
Blowing like leaves
I chase down sealed 
Dented cans of hope.

With one pair of eyes
Inevitably you’ll find yourself in a single view someday.
Walking alone without another Pair, your hands empty 
Except for your 
Pocketbook and calling cards.
Blistered heels and skinned knees -
No one else to help watch the bumps in the road.
Holding up one hand 
Hailing any empty cab while
The sun waits on the horizon
For me to return to 
No one in particular 
Loneliness casts 
A long shadow.

With a single pair of eyes
The myopic make few plans.