Category: Uncategorized

You played this game of
do or lose, and lost the game of living to a
pale man called Death-but the rooms
found out and the white face of the
clock found out and stopped time just for you.
A year moved forward (went back) and you are still
a young man trying to find out the meaning of Life,
which is as dim as classical music is to your deaf ears.

Sometimes Death is as close as vivid is to
the red eye, and you just want to cry,
but Death leaves you laying there,
bleeding on the doorstep (strawberry red jam
shoots out of your ears).
Then you live once more-you are
resurrected, let’s say-but the living is
only half-living, and the Death is only half-death.

This game of Life and Death-of “do” or lose-
is a party to get your young
mind to sleep in bed with Eternity:
Eternity as dark as birth,
as dark as a majestic mountain peak against a purple
night sky,
as dark as her own black Father cursing in his
shallow grave.

Whiney chair slandered by prosperous weight

suffocating
mouthful of powdered cheese strays fleeing fight of jaws
clamp dirt shoveled in disdainful luxurious muddy pit
punctured stomach scythe splitting regret-filled torso midnight comes
early bird swallows worm whole retching its guts to feed
baby cradled in wicker sheets absorbed fantasies of premature
skins touching skins pruney wrinkles whiskey bath porcelain
rims of vehicle wheels worn pile metal scraps – yield
forgotten
suicide notes course through arteries vieling promises neglected
truth.

Burrowed breaths tobacco stained walls nails scratching beholds
guilt splattered mucus violent yellow eyes stare down acid
burning

esophagus coughing unspoken desire annihilated in pill and needle
piercing sterling-silver chain mail ransom letters scramble inhibiting
sores splintered lips sewn to enemies wringing elbow greased grit
between teeth cracking diamonds polished jet-black motor oil
rushing

crimson river floating lilies standing knee-deep drowning
empty lungs

gaping legs bestow flickering candle-lit tunnel hot wax runs s l o w l y
buried alive dressed in doilies memory thieved cherrywood casket stands
alone.

Beneath the weight of silence,
the body lays, still and pale,
where once a heart beat steady,
now only shadows tell the tale.

Whispers fill the empty room,
of laughter, love, and fear,
but all that remains is the space—
the absence where you once were near.

The breath that danced with morning,
the hands that held the sky,
now rest beneath the cold, dark earth,
as the final hours pass by.

A thread that once was golden,
now frayed and worn, untold,
and in the quiet, beneath the soil,
the body is wrapped in cold.

All that remains is the coffin’s lid,
the weight of the end, serene,
the hands that grasped, the eyes that saw,
now lost in the spaces between.

And in the stillness, a soft release,
the pulse of life now still,
the body rests, the soul takes flight—
death’s quiet, final chill.

The elevator doors open on the fourth floor of St. Bartholomew’s. The air is thick—antiseptic, endings, whispers of nurses who have tried, who have failed. Your father’s episodes… we cannot contain him.

But how does one contain a man who has spent a lifetime filling theaters with thunder, with laughter, with the echoes of a hundred voices?

His room is a barricade, chairs upturned, a fortress of blankets and rage. This is no hospital—this is a prison! And I am its captive!

I step forward, script in hand. “Dad, it’s Alice. I’ve brought something special.”

The air shifts. The wild glint in his eyes flickers, softens. Alice, my star… have you come to set me free?

I offer the script like a peace offering, like a map home. The Last Voyageur. His final role. His greatest performance.

He takes it, fingers tracing the pages like old memories. “It speaks of a voyageur?”
“It speaks of you.”

I drape the Hudson Bay Point blanket over his shoulders—the one he always admired but never bought, the one that belongs to him now.

“It’s a prop, Dad. For the voyageur.”

A shift. The room is no longer a hospital, no longer an ending, but a stage. The bed, a canoe. The script, a paddle. And as he recites, the current takes him. His voice strong, rolling over the walls like waves. He sings—En roulant ma boule—a song older than time, a song that carries.

And for a moment, the illness is upstaged, the audience holds its breath, and my father is who he has always been.

Night falls. The script slips from his fingers. His voice quiets. The monitor stills. In spring, I lay him in his final canoe, overlooking a quiet lake. The theater masks—comedy and tragedy—stand watch. The blanket, now his shroud.

The wind stirs. A whisper. A rowing song on the breeze. The lake ripples. The voyage continues.

Since my fathers death I cannot write but I’ll try it here
this grief feeling a lot like fear
walking around broken inside
yet where we reside
is out there
so I trudge along with this latest trauma
tight inside my chest
hurt feeling and offense
for now unresolved
making it even harder to hear
what is meant for me now so
I bow
my head often in prayer
hoping an answer lies there
is it you now walking with me Dad?
The constancy of what we had
now gone
my heart broken
I feel your freedom though
and had dreams of your face all aglow
as you gazed with joy at your new untethered future
which made me happy
I will hold that vision and cry my tears
and feel my fears
and love you
forever
til we meet again

He was my brother
And would have enjoyed
Crossing the Kentucky River
And the Rio Grand’
In the same day
And I have to say
I would have
Enjoyed it, too
If I hadn’t been
Coming back
From his funeral

That dress you left behind? It carried on,
splayed out diagonally across my chest-
nut table. I ripped carefully along
the seams holding the plastic teeth abreast

and set the jaws aside. Stitched ribbon skin
along the wounded spine and plucked each piece
of fur that stabbed the fabric deep within
its weave. Your dog, like you, would never cease

its shedding or its anger. Unlike you,
the thing was blameless and ugly. The dress
is mine now, hanging on your old pool cue,
which leans against my wall. I cleaned the mess

created by the restoration. I
will cut and sew your things until I die.

You want to,
cry aloud.
it was my mistake

Tell me am I am coward,
this guilt is weighing me down

Honeysuckle scent,
suffocating me

If I wasn’t a coward,
would our conversation have
ended differently

You don’t say you’re scared,
And I don’t say “I’m sorry”

When you’re already gone,
beneath the surface.

Layered beneath stone and dirt,
unmoving in sedimentary

Whether burned or buried,
the end isn’t up to me

Imaginary tears
on your face
I scream and cry

The honeysuckle scent
Suffocating me,
but not you.

I’m the one left suffocating
I’m the one left scared.

What if death
The gentleman caller
The arc angel
Is not the one
That brings us
To whatever is next
But is the one
Who saves us
Who brings us back
From those moments
The ones you read about
Or see on the news
When someone
Sees the light
Feels the darkness
Closing in on them
But comes back
What if death is
The hero of the story
Tirelessly running around
Giving people the heimlich maneuver
Making us look both ways
Before we cross the street
What if death is just
Late, alot
With so many lives to save
What if he just can’t
Get to everyone on time
So he’s left watching tragedies
He knows he could have stopped
A superhero whose spidey senses
Are just overwhelmed
So when we lose someone
We are never alone
In our mourning of a life gone to soon
Not alone in all of the what ifs
Death is there
Standing next to us
Thinking the same thing

Pandemic, country swept
wine flows, souls smolder
humans live without touch.
I share with you the fears that
lie in my heart, but only through
the mask covering my face. We
are no longer allowed to exist in
the same intimate spaces.

Some appreciate the
reprieve. Grandpa did not. If
someone was to ask me
what the hardest thing about
the Coronavirus was, I would tell
them, it was losing one of my favorite
people. In the end
of his life, we had to stay away to
keep him alive and, I think,
the distance might have killed him.

I often think about love and
the human condition. The way we
give love freely but also want
space. Until space is the only
thing we’ve got. Grass is greener,
I guess. Why is it so hard to love
what we have, when we have it?

Grandpa had love
to spare. He never needed
space. I fear forgetting
and yet I remember him like
no time has passed, his
Smell, his
Smile, his
zest for life and the fight he
showed until the end.

I never imagined that I would,
one day, pray for his
death. Until his death brought
him peace. And relief from
the pain.

Life is full of conditions. This
condition and that condition and
I don’t care for them, to be
honest. I want to go to
his house and pull up the tiny
white stool that was the perfect
height to sit face to face with
him. Just high enough to hold
his hand and let our arms rest
together
on the arm of the recliner.

It’s been nearly four
years and I’d give anything to
just sit and hold Grandpa’s
hand