Tag: death

A moment, a glance, and all time stops, Time stops for this moment to understand. Within this same moment is another time, A childhood of holiday memories Filling the air around this face: Christmas holidays, Climbing on the old feeder, Descending into the cellar world, Wading, empty-hooked, in a pond While his dad pulled in his 30th fish. I am not yet old, Yet he, younger than I, Already is gone. He knew how to live, He knew important deeds: To look you in the eye, Say “I love you” with goodbye. And here he looks again at me from…

Read the PostA Face to the Past

Freely you gave your home Relying on hospitality rather than money to feed the stranger. Ordering the peace of the home Manfully establishing stability. Could you have been the father I did not expect, Replacing the distance of my own? All the rough edges on the surface Purposefully obscuring the gentle interior. Putting forth a good word, Enjoined to your way of love, Rejoicing, we honor your memory.

Read the PostGentle in the Rough

I’ve carried brotherly concern and care Like leaden weights to hold me to the earth For fear the whys would draw me to the clouds, Ever to float, no bearings for to guide. I’ve carried brotherly concern and care Not knowing how to reassure that I Have always held the selfsame anchor fast, Yet that, for harbor true, will I vouchsafe. I’ve carried brotherly concern and care, The first among us guiding silently Whereto, that first day, in our final home He gently tread, estranged from worldly cares. I’ve carried brotherly concern and care Concern extending empty hands to give,…

Read the PostI’ve Carried Brotherly Concern and Care

See how the grass stands, grown, without a roof, Four patches kept from sun to make them thrive, Their tires gone, yet imprints left in life Give ears to hear their presence clearly move. ‘Tis from a different time and now dull red, Its former brilliance faded through long wear; Though steering wheel and handles used till bare, Tires run long miles to change have often led. Not left to rot, a remnant of excess, Not rightly called antique, as some would say, But centered to the straight and narrow way. Last of a cohort, made for nothing less Than…

Read the PostA Sold Classic