Eulogy for the Ones We Left Behind
I can recall
looking inside the yellow-poplar cabinet
of my heart.
I can recall its rhythm;
Knock-knock-knockin’
to the sound of waves
stirring in a sleeping sea.
Have you seen it too?
The holy City
that rests along the shore
of my skipjack mind.
Perhaps,
Like me,
You traveled There when you were small.
Everything was all the larger
when I was young -
The brick-paved roads,
The ice cream cones,
The starving (yet somewhat fat) seagulls,
And the lighthouse ghost stories.
I was not alone
in this shining City by the sea.
Why,
Weren’t you there too?
We all go There eventually.
On some forgotten day
in the distant tomorrow,
I will rest
on It’s piers.
I will watch the waking sea
eat the jetties
and carry me away
on a boat
with yellow-poplar masts.
My spirit is a desert.
My spirit is a sea.
The sea is the desert
worth crossing.
Only Christ may cross the sea
as he had the desert,
Barefooted.
I have wandered a long time
in this place,
Looking for It what once was,
What It could be.
There are no yellow-poplar giants left alive
to shade my pandemonius spirit.
After seven days of walking in devouring dunes,
My feet bleeding,
I asked myself,
“What is this Place?
Why should I partake in It’s crossing?”
I,
Alone,
Must tell myself:
“This is your birthplace,
Your home,
And the end of all things.
You will wander my Hell,
Until you find that This
is the very Place
that we are searching for.”
I can recall
when the days of rain
brought the smells of green moss and rising life.
Those days are no more.
The dead ground outside
judges the racing rain to be too young,
To be too much like a child.
It revolts against the progeny of the Spring sky,
Writhing and lusting,
Begetting mud.
In this Place,
I can find only one semblance of green:
A cemetery that,
Like I once was,
Is all too small.
Underneath the rabid growths of black-eyed Susans
lie alabaster markers,
Carrying the names of those
I should remember.
I can recall
running wildly,
Barefoot,
Through the tear-dripping forests of my
Spring-morning youth.
I can recall,
Seven years ago,
How later that day we went to that seaside City
And dined on crab-legged tables -
How we sat outside the restaurant,
Protected from the wounded clouds,
And watched them retreat,
Sobbing,
Into some future evening.
And for that, this Eulogy is made:
The yellow-poplar cabinet
of my heart
is rusted shut.
The stars of the desert night
Are my last company -
And even they,
Too,
Will inevitably fade.
I will find no solace
in those forgotten names,
The ones
I left behind.
Photos were taken in Annapolis Maryland and Palm Island Beach in North Carolina, with a Sony Alpha5000. VSCO was used for editing.
Thank you for sharing an emotion charged poem with your photograph. The two go together perfect, the words tinted with a sense of longing for treasures forever lost.
Yet another personally prescribed purpose I have for poetry is capturing the ephemeral. This poem is about once more, for me, the fleeting days of childhood and it’s ironically eternal grip on my mind.
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beautiful, the poem meditates on the frontiers of the past, present, and future.
Thanks for sitting through the whole thing. I don’t usually burden the reader with stanzas this long, but whilst writing this I felt I hadn’t said enough.
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STOPA wonderful poetic journey of self discovery.
Well! You do have a way with the energy of words. Love it. Blessings. Wanted to upvote but I've exceeded my voting limit for the day. Will have to come back tomorrow!
duuudr that’s cr*zy
This comment has received a 0.20 % upvote from @speedvoter thanks to: @mahadihasanzim.