The Dream of Heaven
I dozed in front of the boob tube.
Best sleep I get anymore.
I’d been watching a documentary
About wrangling, fighting and war.
I dreamed I was on my deathbed
And my lapsed Catholic wife
Prayed that the Catholic God
Would forgive my non-Catholic life.
In a twinkling it was over
And I was in the sky
with Jesus and Mary and a million saints
But I could not figure why.
And there were the Pearly Gates
Where no one stood alert.
But everyone was speaking Latin
And wearing long black skirts.
“There has to be an error,”
I offered to those around
But Hitler’s Pope, Pius Twelve said
“You were lost but now you’re found.”
“I don’t want to be found, sir.
I’m not a Catholic, you see.”
“It happens sometimes,” he said with a shrug.
“Administrative error,” said he.
But I’m not of the laity.
And I never knew a deacon.
Only one Priest in all my life.
Why I’m a Catholic cretin!
No bishops or archbishops.
I have no clue about their miters.
And Cardinals all dressed in red
Are only birds, not holy fighters.
No matter, said the evil Pope.
If I get in, so do you.
Just consider it affirmative action.
Now take your seat in the pew.
But I don’t know the songs!
Or when to stand or kneel.
I don’t know how to pray and
I don’t know how to feel.
I don’t know why there’s incense
And I don’t know why there’s gold
I don’t know why I can’t talk to God
Instead of a priest through that little hole.
And guilt over killing Christ…
I didn’t do the deed.
Call and response makes no sense
In a time when we all can read.
It took almost three centuries
To sort the divine hullabaloo.
And just when the ordeal seemed hopeless
Some habited nun fixed the SNAFU.
I woke from my nap with a gasp.
A preacher was on the TV,
Asking me to send him money.
A downpayment on eternity.
Forgive me, sir, if I pass this chance
To give to the Creator of night and day,
‘Cuz I don’t want to go to Catholic heaven.
Just let me Requiescat in pace.
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Book of the Dead 10
Book of the Dead 10
No person ever loved me more than my Grandmother.
And I don’t mean that as something that lifts me up.
I mean that as a testament to the goodness of Grandma.
The depth of my love of steamed eggs, or alternatively, custard pie
Are mere substitutions for the depth of my love for Grandma.
But Grandma died while I was in Marine Corps boot camp in 1969.
Her seventh heart attack did her in and it mattered not to the Corps
How much I loved my Grandmother or how much she loved me;
I was not permitted leave during boot camp for this or any reason.
After, Grandma came to me in boot camp, though she didn’t bring custard pie.
Something prohibited me from climbing the rope on the obstacle course.
Despite my intent and will, I could climb up only about ten feet and stall.
And there hung I, between Heaven and the drill instructor,
Who promised unpleasant consequences if I came down before I went up.
Long minutes hanging in limbo before succumbing to the DI’s promise.
Eventually, through a trick of faith and some personal instruction,
My feet and hands learned the trick. I became more of a man and more of a Marine.
But the truth of my heart was, I asked Grandma to help and she did.
Long after the Marine Corps, after the war, I fell asleep driving home alone one night.
Of course, I don’t know if I slept a moment or a minute, I was jolted
awake by a strike (more than a nudge, less than a slap) in the small of my back.
Awake, aimed exactly for a cement bridge abutment on the freeway,
Probably about a half-second before impact,
Grandma’s dusting powder scent filled the air in the car.
There is more to say here but I will leave it between Grandma and me.
No person ever loved me more than my Grandmother.
And I don’t mean that as something that lifts me up.
I mean that as a testament to the goodness of Grandma.
The depth of my love of steamed eggs, or alternatively, custard pie
Are mere substitutions for the depth of my love for Grandma.
But Grandma died while I was in Marine Corps boot camp in 1969.
Her seventh heart attack did her in and it mattered not to the Corps
How much I loved my Grandmother or how much she loved me;
I was not permitted leave during boot camp for this or any reason.
After, Grandma came to me in boot camp, though she didn’t bring custard pie.
Something prohibited me from climbing the rope on the obstacle course.
Despite my intent and will, I could climb up only about ten feet and stall.
And there hung I, between Heaven and the drill instructor,
Who promised unpleasant consequences if I came down before I went up.
Long minutes hanging in limbo before succumbing to the DI’s promise.
Eventually, through a trick of faith and some personal instruction,
My feet and hands learned the trick. I became more of a man and more of a Marine.
But the truth of my heart was, I asked Grandma to help and she did.
Long after the Marine Corps, after the war, I fell asleep driving home alone one night.
Of course, I don’t know if I slept a moment or a minute, I was jolted
awake by a strike (more than a nudge, less than a slap) in the small of my back.
Awake, aimed exactly for a cement bridge abutment on the freeway,
Probably about a half-second before impact,
Grandma’s dusting powder scent filled the air in the car.
There is more to say here but I will leave it between Grandma and me.
Book of the Dead 9
With age, things change:
Skin thins as if by evaporation.
Gums recede.
Color leaves the hair.
The skeleton shrinks
In size and density.
We are gradually less.
At the end, we cease,
As far as we know,
In this corporeal world.
We set aside our bodies,
Like last year’s model.
We set aside physical interaction.
But that is all obfuscation.
It is a trick of language to say
We did something
And then say We don’t do something.
For the dead, there is still so much to do.
There is the going away,
Likened to some journey that changes us.
And if we go away,
We must be going to some place.
Another place, not like this place.
For what good is an afterlife,
If it is merely another iteration of this life?
Why go to all the bother of aging and dying
Just to wake up in another here?
There are always tests to see if the dead are worthy.
Ancient Egyptians had Ma’at,
Simultaneously Justice and Truth,
And Goddess.
If the heart of the dead
Balanced on a scale against her feather,
The dead could pass to the afterlife.
If it did not, the dead received utter obliteration.
It was all about the state of the heart.
Hebrews, Christians and Muslims
all measure the good of the heart
And promise obliteration if there is not enough.
Today, as a cultural species, we don’t need religion
to practice the concept of obliteration.
We begin before physical death.
The soon-to-die begin to lose autonomy.
It happens as if by evaporation,
The value of a full person evaporates.
We take their positions.
We take their possessions.
We take their permissions.
Once they actually cease,
There is so little change in the world.
It’s like they were always a memory.
Book of the Dead 6
Book of the Dead 6
In life, my mother said she longed to travel.
So when she died
Her children took on the task
Of delivering her ashes
to random and various locations,
Widespread as possible.
I traveled on an airplane
With some of Mother’s ashes
In a zip-lock plastic bag
In my hip pocket.
I was conscious of her presence
As I sat in that narrow seat.
And I set them free
In the shadow of Haystack Rock
At Cannon Beach.
She entered the sea
And turned it milky gray
On the first incoming wave,
Then drifted out a few feet
And returned wider on the next wave.
And then, like some kind of ethereal sea bass
Might flip its tail,
She splashed at me and was gone.
I won’t say she hasn’t been back.
In life, my mother said she longed to travel.
So when she died
Her children took on the task
Of delivering her ashes
to random and various locations,
Widespread as possible.
I traveled on an airplane
With some of Mother’s ashes
In a zip-lock plastic bag
In my hip pocket.
I was conscious of her presence
As I sat in that narrow seat.
And I set them free
In the shadow of Haystack Rock
At Cannon Beach.
She entered the sea
And turned it milky gray
On the first incoming wave,
Then drifted out a few feet
And returned wider on the next wave.
And then, like some kind of ethereal sea bass
Might flip its tail,
She splashed at me and was gone.
I won’t say she hasn’t been back.
Book of the Dead 5
Book of the Dead 5
The dead have always had more to say
To me than the living.
They do not stutter
Or say “um.”
They do not approach their subject
At an angle.
Or hide it in figures of speech.
Nor do they screw up facial expressions
To convey empathy.
The dead have no empathy.
They say,
“Death has no mercy.”
And
“The dead care less for the living
Than the living care for the dead.”
It is just like how we measure
All of the events of our life differently
Than those things which happened
Before we were born.
Before my day, there were only stories.
The dead have always had more to say
To me than the living.
They do not stutter
Or say “um.”
They do not approach their subject
At an angle.
Or hide it in figures of speech.
Nor do they screw up facial expressions
To convey empathy.
The dead have no empathy.
They say,
“Death has no mercy.”
And
“The dead care less for the living
Than the living care for the dead.”
It is just like how we measure
All of the events of our life differently
Than those things which happened
Before we were born.
Before my day, there were only stories.
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 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.
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.
