Someone in Paris Died: JG
It happens all too often, the news of death, from some
forgotten location, a person who once helped
us out of a scrape, a nearly unknown name;
then when it is too late to write or mourn, like kelp
beyond the high tide mark, cracked and dried,
a bad smell of remembrance, it invades
your conscience and your consciousness. He died
with family, friends and those who knew him better,
longer and deeper, each of them like blades
that cut into my growing sense of guilt.
My loss: if only I had sent one letter
to remind him of my gratitude. Tears spilt
now will fade too soon into the sands of time,
silent stains that have no reason or rhyme.
PGB: In Memorium
We sat there is a small crowded patisserie,
As though we were those who did their best to find
ideas
For generations in that same crowded space, and we
Had known each other all our lives, sharing fears
And hopes. You did so much, and I so little,
Yet like all those other fleeting conversations,
They changed my life, and saved my soul, brittle
Once and then made subtle, gave me patience
To press on with difficult questions. Just across
The little narrow street, in the building where
The Divine Sarah performed a century ago,
You made me feel someday I might belong
And write the books of verse we all would share,
But now you are beyond my voice, under moss
That softly filters out my urge to hear your wise advice.
KAIROS
It’s one thing to outlast your enemies and feel the
earth
Grow lighter with their passing; another when friends
Depart and weigh you down with grief. Not worth
The contemplation, those you almost knew
But faded in the course of life, the dream that ends
Before you realize it was Kairos, that single
Moment of opportunity, meeting when true
Attachments could be made, in a shady dingle
Or a distant dell, conjured out of nothing
But a spark of imagination, and when it blends
Into the darkness of despair, before it flew
Out of your reach, like a will’o’th’wisp. Grief bends
Into a bitter memory and echoes—then ends.
The Same Old Thing Again
They were always passing away, those who came first,
But no one told me for decades, and then no tears
Would spring to my eyes and grief was fleeting. The
thirst
To drink in their wisdom had been quenched by miles
And years; then other interests came my way.
I never seemed to think of them when I was young.
Great scholars sat up front while notes were scribbled
And who they were was just the way things were,
Like rhymes hidden in rough lines or hung
Upon the structure of long epics. I quibbled
About words I was too lazy to search. Then year
Followed year, old figures disappeared, the voices
Of authority no longer commanded my respect,
And blurry dreams tugged at my deaf ear.
The distant details were no longer there to inspect.
Life skittered further down into the great abyss.
On the Edge of Murder
She said there was no Covid-19—I gulped—
and four million dead were a drop in the bucket:
but we were stuck and there was no way to answer back,
and I am too old to let my anger loose, as I did once,
when someone said, “The blecks hev not ivolved”
I felt a pall of unconsciousness descend;
then, people
were pulling my fists apart:
suddenly I saw her fear and rage,
and it was time to leave and never return.
The ugliness of stupidity is once again on the
streets,
like the brown
shirts and the green shirts and the black,
altogether formidable despite their cowardly
countenances.
Don’t respond to their ugly words—But they ram their
cars
and stab us in the back. No use calling the police.
No use looking to see who runs out of their house to
help.
Once again, as always, we are on our own.
The best you get are some pious words
and maybe a few dollars thrown in charity.
Completely on our side, they say, but, after all
You don’t expect me to risk my family’s life or
comfort.
No, my dear old friend, I expect nothing.
Well, then, no harm done, right? he says. No harm.
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