Book of the Dead 4

Book of the Dead 4

Ghosts are only people
Confused by growing transparent.
I had a great-grandmother who didn’t know
She was a ghost for nearly a decade.
Her hair grew gray,
Then wirey-white,
Then transparent limp-gray again.
Her skin thinned
Until that which marked what was part of her
And what was the rest of the cosmos,
Became indistinct
And it barely mattered.

She lived in a time that had passed.
She spoke to other ghosts
And asked about the living.
She had lost track of her time.
When she finally died,
Mostly it was a relief.

Book of the Dead 3

Book of the Dead 3

As time erodes,
The past fades.
All our deeds fade.
Memory goes gauzey.
Even morning is translucent by eve.
And by death,
We are making no new fading tapestries.
The image,
The tone,
The scent,
The taste,
The feel
Of fading dust
Is left but shortly.

The dead fade too.
Their countenance,
Their deeds.
Swept away like detritus:
A tie clasp,
A collar button,
A porcelain thimble.
By midnight they can barely be seen at all.


Book of the Dead 2

Book of the Dead 2

The dead begin gathering immediately after midnight.
The bridge over the river carries a steady stream,
Mostly the old,
But rarely a small child,
Occasionally a wave at once,
Chattering excitedly.
The ferry is a pleasant myth.
They sort themselves by birthdate
Along the other shore,
Children in front,
Low, to see and be seen,
Parents,
Grandparents,
Great-grandparents,
Rarely the Centenarians,
High on the bank.
They wait there all day
While more arrive.
Some wave to someone or something
On the Living Bank,
But most on both shores can’t see much.
The sun sinks.
Color bleeds from the earth.
The dead fade translucent.

Book of the Dead 1

Trauma has come to the Marsh home this fall. I could count them for you, but I won’t. It was enough for me to forget about writing 30 poems in 30 days until reminded on the 18th of the month.

So, here is my effort. Not a happy one, but it’s where the creative juices are right now. This will be 30 poems about death by the end of November. No images on these posts to attract your eyes.

Offering #1

Book of the Dead 1

In the last light of early evening
The newly-dead gather on the other side of the river.
They shout things back to us on the living bank,
Things that matter to the dead.
“Take care of your lungs.”
“Grief is a sharp stick.”
But the living do not hear them,
Jumbled when whisper-shouted together.
The living have gathered inside anyway,
Like every day,
Preparing food and turning on lights.
These are things the dead have forgotten.

A Long Lineage

These images are relief prints of Sir Henry and Lady Margery Paris. They are representations of the brasses that overlay their graves.

Let me tell you some history. Long ago and far away, I married a woman whose family had lived in London for several years. Her mother was a very active “brass rubber.” These grave plates were often overlaid with special paper and traced with special crayons to create unique art pieces in themselves. When Pat and I married, her mother gifted a pair of rubbings of Sir Henry Paris and his wife Lady Margery Paris to my parents.

Time moves on and Pat and I divorce but the rubbings continued to find a place on the walls of my parents’ house while they begin to sell their original art at craft fairs and shows. One of the pieces my father made was a carving (approximately 30″ by 12″) in a single butternut plank. He puts an “I don’t want to sell these” price on the pieces.

More years pass, as do my parents and Pat’s parents. Somehow these carvings by my father find their way to me and they have hung over my bed for a long time. One day, it occurs to me that I should carve and print them too.

In the process of researching them, I discover that Dad’s carvings are of Sir Henry Paris but the paired woman is not his wife, Lady Margery. I do not know if my parents received a mis-matched pair of rubbings or if Dad substituted a different image himself.

My version is of Sir Henry and Lady Margery. This series of seven prints each is in gold, but I may create another series one day in silver. Rest easy Henry, Margery, Harold, Joyce, Glen and Edith.

But What Do You DO With Them?

These are little baskets made out of gelli prints. Someone posted a question about making these in a FaceBook group page of gelli printers. I was curious too so I spent a day (a full day!) sorting the math and once I figured out I wasn’t dealing with circles but rather, dodecahedrons, I worked it out! (Thank you Mr. Ferrier for the algebra and Mrs. Fedora for the geometry).

Pic one is three of them, or rather two baskets and one in the process. Pic two is the best little one I made on stiff canvas paper. Pic three is a larger one (another, shorter, round of math) printed on light canvas. I gave that to my wife for Valentine’s Day. Fun project but they take a large amount of time to print, dry, cut out, assemble. If I were to sell these they would have to go for about $200 to pay for the time. And then, what do you DO with them?

Valentine 2024

This old body has lost its equilibrium.
I stumble around here,
Heel rolling over the toe,
Like an old drunk
When I’m sober as a pastor…
MORE sober than that one pastor.
There are only a couple of things it could be.
My body doesn’t function like a well-trained athlete any longer, or
I’m hopelessly in love with you
and my brain is blindly following my heart to be near/toward/around you.

I’m going with number 2.
I’m not waiting for Door Number 3.
Come stagger with me, my love.

Food & Sex


(From a glossy mag quiz re: food and sex)

At my age do I have a comment about food and sex?
Does a fat old man have the right?
Am I still relevant in the final, um…quarter of my life?
What of audience for my say about food and sex?
After all, I remember the summer of love first hand, so to speak.

(Speaking of love)
I have had sex without love.
I have had love without sex.
And I have had no love without sex.
No love without sex is boring.
Love without sex is boring,
What could be worse in America?
But sex without love is like
(Speaking of food)
Steak without the sizzle–
Steak devoid of fat–
Tofu-based ground meat product–
Not even good enough to make a decent chili.
It doesn’t matter how hot you make it.
Add garlic and chilis and cayenne,
Add salsa and white pepper, black pepper, red pepper,
Add mustards, white, black, yellow,
Even oysters and a tiny bit of chocolate,
It’s still just soy
Dressed up in crotchless panties and a garter belt.
Sex without love is nice,
Nice like low-cal sherbet made from skimmed milk and xylitol,
Nice like soda with aspartame,
Nice like left-handed sugar,
Nice like microwave popcorn with shake-on artificial butter flavored salt substitute.

Fucking your way to love
Is like eating your way to thin,
Or praying your way to heaven
Because in an hour,
Or after a shower,
You just need more.
The itch remains unscratched.
The void remains unfilled.
And eventually you get some disease
Or you figure out that some things aren’t good for you:
That some sex is goofy;
That some sex is a little crazy;
It’s all fun and games
Until you break your dick.
So you lay off and try to heal,
Sitting on the couch
(Speaking of food)
Eating pop tarts,
Tater tots, fish sticks, fruit by the yard,
Wonder bread, Lucky Charms, Fritos,
Ubiquitous bean dip, candy bars,
Cup cakes, Twinkies, smokey links,
Propyl gallate, butylated hydroxyanisole
Or butylated hydorxytoluene,
Potassium bromate, monosodium glutamate,
Ascesulfame K, Olestra, sodium nitrate,
And always, always,
hydrogenated vegetable oil with
Blue 1, Blue 3,
Red 3, Yellow 6.
It’s all in there,
Like good pornography.
And eventually there you are again,
Staring at your reflection in the pool
And wondering why that erection won’t go away,
Understanding the meaning of priapism.
And clitorism,
Or why your panties won’t dry
In the middle of the swirling snow squall.
Trying to come in from the storm,
Trying to come in to the table
Trying to come in
Trying.

You Can’t Kill Love (No Matter How Hard You Try)

Dedicated to you. If you think it’s you, it is.

I tried to kill my love for you.
I shot it full of holes—
Stabbing, choking, poison—
In a battle for my soul.
I tampered with its brake lines.
I stretched it on the rack.
I surgically removed my heart,
But it kept coming back.

FEMALE CHORUS
Love SAYS, “I didn’t vote for
This fate for you, my friend.
But I’ll be here, year after year,
Until the very end.
Until the stars wink out at night
And the sun turns cold and stark.
‘Til Entropy rules splendidly
In a last act cold and dark.

I tried to drown it in the bath.
I held it down for hours.
I tried to bury love for you
Beneath the yellow flowers.
But up it leaps from way down deep
And struts upon its stage.
It reads the saddest tale of all,
But never turns the page.

MALE CHORUS

I tried to drown it in a bottle
They made in old Bombay.
I persevered for 10 long years
And 27 days.
But love kept coming back
Like a cat with 7 lives,
With big sharp teeth, a screeching voice
And claws like switchblade knives.

I tried to hang it on my chest
Like a medal for the brave.
I tried to spank it publicly
In hopes it would behave.
But it acts just like a spoiled brat
With snot upon its nose
And so I beat it ceaselessly
With a stick and rubber hose.

FULL CHORUS

Is it too late for a life on Broadway?

Brother-Man, Joe Troyer comes through again! This is an early run-through of the song in his best country/folk rendition. Thank you, Joe.