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.
Monthly Archives: November 2024
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.
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.