When My Parents Died

There came also light
and you and I were trapped in it
unable to find each other's eyes.

And weight descended too;
a garden full of stones cast,
wounds unhealed by myrrh or oils.

When they took the bodies
we prepared ourselves for burial,
the same rite and sepulcher shared

by so many who fall along this path.
And our first day afterward was late,
and dark. And no angel rolled away the grief.



Closing the Eyes of the Dead

     …and the ground took the body, and the ground was pleased. – Brigit Pegeen Kelly

Sometimes I dream of eyes,
small, slate grey tragedies,
and more than once I've knelt
before crucifixes, pierced the veil
of this impossible debt. The weight
of such glory; the thin folds
of skin encrusted with light
quicken some protest of my own soul.
No one remembers
these waxy layers of body,
the spaces between bone we push
forward. We are all right angles
nailed to something, lame
yet outstretched, doors
slightly ajar, without momentum
to open, to close. Of the dead
speak no evil. In such moments,
our hands are heavier than stone,
belong to us no longer.

 

After the Funeral

     "There was sweet confusion, there were tender words." – Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov

Flowers have not been laid in weeks.
Their unpredictable roils,

     light and groaning, remain
     churning in the sterile blue air,

but thin spikes of garbled questions
no one can answer
conceal the fractured tumulus now;

scar tissue, blades of regret
we finger each visit.

     I cannot stop myself.



Corpus Delicti

     Tell me who will put flowers on a flower's grave? — Tom Waits

Twenty-five miles south of Verona,
the relationship people have with each other

and death has not changed much—
Two skeletons on their sides, grey humeri

clasping one another, patellae entwined:
An eternal embrace.

As if to say, we have no regrets.
Another lie.
 
I have no use for bones, unearthed
beliefs that we are not alone.

There is always blame.
The grave is an open mouth

refusing to swallow guilt.
No one is ever really saved—

This lingering qualm survives
whatever flowers we throw down.

there are a few bits and peices that could be changed, I suppose, but I think it's all lovely

brilliant rage...brava!

michael

I think Closing the Eyes of the Dead may be my favorite.  But after that one I became an instant fan and those that followed moved me as well.  These touched me in a real way. 

lynn

There is the universal and the individual in this piece, and it is done so well.  All parts were strong, especially the closing.  Very quietly powerful and affecting.  Thanks!

Do you feel the emotion? I do. Post more, please.

This has been a very difficult series to write. My parents passed away nearly two years ago and just lately I've felt the need to put something down about the loss. Thank you for all the flattering comments!

I'm sorry to hear about your parents. These poems, however, are absolutely amazing. Enough said-- I wouldn't change a thing. 

Take care,

-O

A masterful series, this. Loved the first piece especially.

What a powerful journey you lead us on with this series. Like the stages of grief, each piece has its own integrity, pain and beauty. I'm so sorry for your loss - sometimes it just takes time to put words to what you've been feeling inside.