~
drifting sleepless
by
many things unknown
a restless moon sonfonia for
cello and viola
~
Here you are old man!
come on in
the war is warm in you
a symphonic humming note
too vibrant with life
to carry with you,
too bold with memory
to leave behind
perched in between but
your moments are slender, Sir
shall we dig a hole
in North African soil
and
return these vibrant seeds
of your youth?
~
Troubled still, I see, by
the pestilence of
a virulent union
still yielding the stubbornness
of stone upon stone.
Here’s the shovel to
bury the house
that joined you in flesh
and may I advise you to
forgive yourself now
since you’ll not forgive
your trouble and strife?
It may unwind the same clock
for your passage
~
(a last kiss on each cheek of the moon)
~
What a wonder !
spirited fireworks
over the skies of East London
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
May your spirit rest in peace A.L.W. 1918- 2013…that’s 95 years!
Cockney rhyming slang for “wife”…. “trouble and strife”
~
~
photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/chanc/374344530/”>Christopher Chan</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a> <a href=”http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/”>cc</a>
Poetry of Light 
The voice this poem is spoken in is so strong and interesting, that it feels as if the poem’s narrator is really the main character. Like the banter of a circus ringmaster introducing one of his acts. Very well done.
LikeLike
Thank you Michele…I’m delighted that the celebratory note in this poem was evident. The voice is more of an “end of care” giver but it certainly is a “last” act.
A dear and greatly admired friend just passed away. He’d had a painful cancer for the last four years of his life, and in his 90’s still lived at home, refusing most drugs. One could not help wonder what kept him here?
It was only towards the end that he began talking about his years in North Africa….a blessing to his son.
He also secretly arranged his own funeral in the last few months, unbeknownst to his ” trouble and strife”, a full dress salute from the service that he had belonged to in the war.
We were told he had gone into hospice and thinking fondly of him, I wrote this as a tribute to his last days the night he finally passed.
LikeLike
the stars
dance kisses
all the way
back
LikeLike
a lot to think about in this poem… so it was the care giver telling him what to do in his last moments… and not god.
LikeLike
Yes, Shimonz…I was inspired by imagining a “end of life care giver” attempting to aid a resilient old man, fragile in the last hours of his life… Assisting with an injection of joy and closure.
But I greatly appreciate your comment because it opens up a new dialogue. I believe that God exists in the present moment…a perpetual moment. So how can God ever tell us what to do? That would be addressing a future that does not exist.
Time is one of our constructs…a measure….and I believe there is no measure in kinship…only love.
Peace and thank you, Shimonz
LikeLike
This is a loving and touching tribute. And an apt description, I think, of what the memories that so many of that generation meant to them — what they did to them. My father was in that generation and in that war (and one other) and spoke very little about it. He had Alzheimer’s at the end and I wonder how much more he may have revealed of his experiences, had he the opportunity.
Thank you for this–
LikeLike
Wonderful…I’m so glad you found something here, Gravity. Thank you..
LikeLike