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The Charcoal Forest

The Mendocino National Forest has been a part of my life in some capacity since childhood, so I have on occasion explored its remote forest roads a year or two after a fire passed through and was able to bear witness to its resilience and capacity for self-renewal.

This time was different. For nearly the entire length of my drive all I saw was dead forest—from where state route 162 ends, splitting off into several small, dirt forest roads to well beyond where it reconsolidates dozens of miles later on the east side of the Inner North Coastal Ranges to continue on across the state. The fires that decimated these lands burned through in 2017 and 2018, and yet where I would see regrowth and renewal in the past I now saw only ash and charcoal, stand upon stand, ridge after ridge, vale after vale, from the western boundary on through to the east.

The forest was not showing signs of regrowth, and in some areas I could see grasses sprouting up that grow in the grasslands in the valleys below—but no sapling trees or bushes, not even wildflowers.

The Charcoal Forest

Mendocino National Forest
September 2022

Most of the pines still stood
tall slender shadows lifeless
in the midst of long thin
shadows cast or fallen beneath
the all consuming light of day
a few remaining limbs crudely
sharpened to flintstone javelins

Younger pines curved seared tips
back to the ground or arched
their black carcasses out to form
an eldritch tunnel over the long
and narrow meandering dirt road

Those more mature towered
abruptly devoid of life every
branch burned down to the trunk
so that rank upon rank of giant
obsidian spears lunged out
at harsh unblemished skies

The old madrones loomed
with chasmal cracks revealing
streaks of inmost heart-wood
two to five large barren limbs
tapered to blackened points
no leaf no twig no branch
remaining—great misshapen
wrists and hands reaching up
in prayer from ashen earth
long fingers twisted in their
final moments of torment

The ancient black oaks—
matriarchs of the wood—lay
with their sprawling crowns
reduced to a tangle of broken limbs
broad charred tentacles writhing
out from the ground a mangled
black mass of horror and pain

Mile after mile the scene
played back again and again
sometimes here or there far
in the distance a small island
of still living green nestled
in the curve of a deep ravine
otherwise only the silence
of charcoal ash and death
a massive gravestone raised
at the head of man and his cities
                                          below

Upon reading this poem, a friend of mine commented saying he liked that I only mentioned three types of trees (the pines actually cover a few species thereof) rather than running through a whole catalog as us Western poets tend to do. Truth is, if there was more to observe, I might well have ended up with a longer poem. But there was nothing else left, no manzanita, no birch, no aspen, no scrub oak at the higher elevations, no birds, deer, or rabbits, just quite literally ash and charcoal and a few small, dead strands of valley grasses from seeds blown up the mountain through the leafless, lifeless spires that once had leaves and underbrush to keep those valley grasses in the valley.

In 20 to 30 years I suspect there won’t even be even many hints left of the lush, diverse life that once flourished here. There aren’t many pathways left for it to return. The ground has been baked free of the microbes and fungi that nourished these trees. The seeds have been reduced to carbon dust.

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When I’m gone

There was a lot of mystery surrounding my father’s death when I was 10, especially when you consider that my only source of information at the time was—and still is—incapable of anything resembling honesty—my mother. I knew he committed suicide, or at least this is what I told. But there was never anything more.

Any attempt to discuss my father’s death with my mother, then as now, invoked tirades of vitriol that still reechoes on perpetual repeat within my mind—“I told your father I was pregnant with you and he said I want a divorce;” “He never wanted anything to do with you;” “Maybe he faked his death and went underground;” Oh, and more.

I was left to fabricate my own reality around his death, especially when you consider that my mother in a very direct way seeded doubt as to whether or not he was really even gone. This created a lifetime of confusion that was only really resolved a couple years ago when my uncle contacted me out of the blue in his old age having learned that he himself did not have much longer to live.

He sent me his death certificate, coroner’s report, and a detective’s very detailed report—he actually interviewed multiple parties, including my mother, and documented his impressions about my father’s state of mind from those interviews, which lead him to believe that he was capable of suicide and there was therefore no need to investigate further.

Thinking about all of this, amongst other things, I realized I wanted to leave some thoughts for my son with regard to my eventual passing. I understand that the human psyche generates a mythos around the passing of a loved one all on its own, but I thought I would guide this a little in relation to my personal cosmology.

When I’m gone

You will not need to look for me
               when I have ventured on
     for I will dream in memory
          till all your days are done

But if you look I think you’ll find
               me high in cottonwoods
     that fork like lightning in the wind
          from out your childhood

You’ll find me where gray ridgetops rise
               above broad seas of pine
     that shimmer greens beneath clear skies
          like echoes out of time

You’ll find me where long breakers crest
               and roll to wide-mouthed coves
     to crash on sands that span abreast
          tall cliffs and alder groves

You’ll find me deep in giant fern
               that glimmers from the shade
     of ancient redwoods, taciturn
          as prayers lightly laid.

But if you look for me in rows
               of sorrow, loss, and care
     that stretch beneath the call of crows,
          you will not find me there.

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In Sickness

I made a note for the idea behind this poem when my wife was dying from refeeding syndrome in 2018. At the time, I was way too close to the matter to even think about writing a poem like this. But, now some time has passed, and my wife survived to regain her health again.

In Sickness

If I knew then what now I know,
  would I still take the vows?
Would I still pledge my life to you
    beneath the cherry boughs?

      Your arms are like a skeleton;
        your face is gaunt and frail.
      A bag is taped against your side
          collecting what you spill.

Would I still bear the looming loss
  if somehow then I knew
what “sickness” meant so long ago
    within that heavy vow?

      You vomit everything you eat;
        your heart rate will not slow.
      Each day it seems you’re nearer yet
          the place we all must go.

The truth is, I have no idea—
  The man I was back then
might well have taken every step
    to circumvent this end.

      The doctors at the hospital—
        They have no reason why
      you will not stabilize and heal—
          I fight back bitter sighs.

But he is not the man that’s here.
  For all my fear and grief,
I will not turn away from you
    so long as you draw breath.

Turns out there is a fairly high percentage of cancer patients who die from refeeding syndrome—a metabolic cascade failure that ends in death—especially with large stage 3 tumors. This is because the tumor takes all the body’s nutrients, essentially starving the patient. When the tumor is gone, the effect can be just like the prisoner of war returning to a normal diet for the first time after rescue, which can trigger the syndrome.

Unfortunately, it seems most doctors don’t know to look for this. It was pure chance that someone on my wife’s medical team realized what was happening and started the protocol for saving her life—parenteral nutrition. This means being fed intravenously until the body remembers how to correctly metabolize food through the digestive system on its own.

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Broken

Today is the anniversary of my father’s suicide. He used his trousers to strangle himself to death early in the morning 40 years ago today while being held overnight in the Monterey City jail’s drunk tank in California.

For most of my life, probably starting the very next year after his death, I forgot what day he died on. But, every June I’d begin to destabilize emotionally in various ways and this would come to a head by the end of the second week of July with some kind of epic breakdown—all without my remembering his death date.

Last year, on July 13th, a Monday—he died on a Monday—I suddenly remembered as my shift ended at work that he used to suffocate me in my sleep. This psychopath would cup his big hand over my little face in my sleep, closing off my airway entirely, so that I woke up in a panic, clawing and freaked out, until I passed back out again. Suddenly, out of nowhere, I felt his hand, I felt the absolute terror and helplessness of waking to suffocation, and I gasped and gasped for air with this vivid memory until I hyperventilated my way into the ER.

Why did he do this? I don’t fucking know. No-one in my family will even verify this memory, including my sister who has told me many times over the years that he would hold my jaw closed in my sleep when I would grind my teeth—which she now denies ever telling me. But this isn’t the resurfaced memory anyway. The intent was clearly to suffocate me unconscious, and the trauma surrounding this abuse is extreme and ongoing.

So, in memory of my father’s 40th deathaversary:

Broken

You were a broken man…
            I know this.

And though you have long since
                  turned to ash
      your broken hand still rests
            upon my shoulders.

In those days I had no way
                  to understand you
      except as something
            to fear,

                        and terribly so.

When you were gone—
                  the moment I knew—
            I felt relief.
      Yet your touch remained.

When you were gone—
            the moment I understood—
                  I felt gripping loss,
      your grip finally loosened.

When you were gone—
      the moment I grasped its meaning—
                  I felt searing guilt.
            Your rage had been extinguished,

                        and could burn no more.

And when you were gone,
            I never once wondered why
      you never came to say goodbye
                  somewhere in my dreams.

                                    Yet
                        I still could feel
            the broken weight of your hand
      pressing, squeezing, clawing
                              somewhere in my spirit.

You were a broken man…
            And you broke your small boy
                  with the terrible, violent weight
      of your broken hand,

            a touch that reaches still—
                        like the sting of cigarette smoke—
                  from the dreaming.

So, yes, another cathartic poem. I swore some years back that I’d use poetry more for artistic, highfalutin endeavors. Because, you know, I’d like to be a more serious, highfalutin poet. But, whatever. I’m a person and I’ve been through a lot.

In the end I should consider that poetry saved my life as a teen. So maybe catharsis is also a part of giving back to the spirit of this muse.

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Greensleeves (a retelling)

One of my all time favorite melodies is “Greensleeves”, especially the chorus. Yet I’ve always found it difficult to fully enjoy because the lyrics are so incredibly chauvinistic. The song is basically about a man feeling “cast off” by his love interest after showering her with gifts, attention, and the promise of status—implying in no uncertain terms that she’s a soulless bitch for having a mind and a heart of her own.

Even so, I’ve found myself singing the first few verses over and over again all my life. But something happened a few years back; I began to experiment with alternative lyrics as I sang. This eventually inspired me to go all out revising this song about personal rejection into a tragic lament about lost love:

Greensleeves

Alas, my Dear, you are dead and gone,
your spirit cast on the starry sea.
And I have loved you oh so long,
delighting in your company.

  Greensleeves was my heart of Joy—
  Greensleeves, my one true love.
  Greensleeves was my sole delight.
  And, who but my Lady Greensleeves.

We met beneath an ancient ash.
Her youthful leaves danced in the sun.
A stream ran near with gentle plash.
We talked until the day was done.

All summer long we made our tryst
where oaks grow strong by the garden gate.
When autumn fields were gold we kissed
and vowed our love with eyes elate.

  Greensleeves was my heart of Joy—
  Greensleeves, my one true love.
  Greensleeves was my sole delight.
  And, who but my Lady Greensleeves.

Our marriage was a quaint affair.
I gave to you my father’s sword.
We traded rings and tender stares,
exchanging many a heartfelt word.

For eight full phases of the moon,
we joyed alone in solitude.
We drank the golden mead at noon
and passed our nights in loving mood.

  Greensleeves was my heart of Joy—
  Greensleeves, my one true love.
  Greensleeves was my sole delight.
  And, who but my Lady Greensleeves.

All winter long and through the spring
you carved inscriptions in the cheese
and chanted charms to bless and bring
our unborn child to life with ease.

At night you hummed by candlelight
the songs your mother sang to you
while weaving clothes to soon bedight
the hope that curled within and grew.

  Greensleeves was my heart of Joy—
  Greensleeves, my one true love.
  Greensleeves was my sole delight.
  And, who but my Lady Greensleeves.

But on that day you labored hard
and in the end for all your strife
the sacred path to breath was barred—
Our child was born devoid of life.

For three full days in bed you lay
with burning brow and a will undone.
On that third night you passed away
and went to join our stillborn son.

  Greensleeves was my heart of Joy—
  Greensleeves, my one true love.
  Greensleeves was my sole delight.
  And, who but my Lady Greensleeves.

Alas, my dear, you are dead and gone,
your spirit cast on the starry sea.
And I have loved you oh so long,
delighting in your company.

The original version repeats the chorus every other verse, but here I decided to come back to the chorus every third verse—though I lead and end with a single refrained verse before the first and after the final chorus. I liked the idea of the opening verse acting as both prologue and epilogue. The last two lines from this verse are the only part of this revision that remain entirely unchanged from the original. Over the years, I’ve encountered several variations of the chorus, so I felt pretty free about creating my own variation, one that more closely fits the story as I’ve reimagined it.

Since the original song seems well rooted in Medieval Britain, I studied up on Anglo-Saxon traditions around courtship, marriage, birth, and death as I explored this recreation. I’ll run through what I used from top to bottom.

It was customary for the groom to give the bride his father’s sword during the marriage ceremony. She would later present this sword to their firstborn son as he passed into adolescence. Rings and vows would also be traded much as we do now. In fact, our current tradition of trading rings and vows stems from this period.

I was surprised to learn that our current use of “honeymoon” is rooted in medieval Britain. Once married, the bride and groom would promptly retire to a remote location for one full cycle of the moon—so 28 days, or “eight full phases” as I put it—every day drinking mead (fermented honey) and making love. It was thought that the mead would bring good health and help ensure conception during this time. Perhaps this worked, as the bride was usually pregnant by the time they returned.

Pregnant women of the period were wont to inscribe charms into the cheese and/or butter they ate. These charms were thought to help ensure full and healthy development of the fetus. One such charm popular at the time was the “Sator Square,” which didn’t even have anything to do with pregnancy or childbirth. Women would also recite charms throughout their pregnancy, often while enacting elaborate rituals, such as stepping over the body of their sleeping husband in bed a certain number of times.

Turns out there was good reason for all this superstition, as today’s anthropologists have determined that as much as 50% of deaths among females in their 20s and 30s occurred during or shortly after labor or miscarriage. The risks would have been well understood at the time. A similar percentage of infants died during or shortly after birth. While pregnancy would have been a time of great joy and anticipation, it was also one of great worry and uncertainty.

Now, I’ve been singing these lyrics ever since deciding they’re finished, and I don’t feel at all weird about it.

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What comes after

I thought I’d try to leave some thoughts on how I eventually came to reach a sort of homeostasis with the fear of death for my son to one day find in the form of this poem. Turned out it’s not easy to put into words. In fact, I’m going to venture out on a limb and say it’s impossible. Such understandings must be discovered—they can’t be taught, disclosed or otherwise imparted. The best I can do is leave a few bread crumbs that may or may not lead my son to eventually finding his own peace with the inexorable reality of the circle of being.

In writing this poem, I did ask myself how I came to my current place of peace with death. The answers were slow to come even to my own mind. It’s a peace found in the seat of the soul, so deep and so obscure that it evades all attempts to grasp at it. But I did come by some important insights, some of which I found words for. But these words would only mean something to one who has already acquired a similar understanding. To the rest, they are probably meaningless as the ramblings of a lunatic—not all that useful for the goal of this poem.

So what small bits of wisdom could I impart to my son’s future self, considering there’s no way at all to impart the understandings I’ve come to acquire? Well, maybe this is at least a start.

What comes after

One day it will dawn on you:
this is not forever. Like the milk
in the fridge, the multigrain bread
on the counter, the lupine blooms
by the driveway, you too have
an expiration date.

This notion may come with a sudden
sense of shock, electrifying waves
of terror. You may try to imagine
existing beyond existence, awareness
beyond the withering of skin,
the bubbling putrefaction of flesh,
the slow return of bone to dust.

Your imagination may conjure images
to mind of all long decomposed
humors magically resurrected,
judgment at the feet of a golden
almighty, or angels leading the way
to long green valleys rowed with white,
columned mansions. You may imagine
nothing, suspended in eternal, black,
weightless solitude—or perhaps
the eternal peace of a dreamless sleep.

When the time comes, I imagine you
will ask me, eyes wide with wonder,
love and anxiety—me, who merely
helped bring you into being, as if I
had somehow unlocked the secrets
of all—what happens to the driver
of all these years, months, days, moments
once the engine of living has ceased to run.

Though I have also pondered
such questions for a lifetime, I will
have no concrete answer for you.
Though you will find many opinions
and declarations of faith from nearly
everyone else, I will offer mostly mystery.
Though friends and family will speak
with inflexible conviction, as if they
themselves have traveled beyond
the thin, black veil, strode the great
marble halls beyond, and returned
to tell all, I will have no simple response.

What I can tell you is that some comfort
may be found in mystery, the kind
of comfort one finds in looking upon
the full moon at midnight, the soft white
river of stars on a moonless night,
the deep green rolling expanse of pines
from a mountaintop, or the all concealing
blue-green wake of the sea, forever
hurling its thunderous foam on the sands.

I can tell you whole lifetimes are wasted
fearing the unknown, years frittered away
dreading the long, thin shadow that falls
on every brow, the cold, grey hand
that cups every shoulder. I can tell you
that one who spends his days marking
that shadow’s slow approach through
time—who merely passes all waking hours
in solemn wait for that last chill touch—
is one who will never know the wild thrill
of spring blossoms arching up an alpine
vale, who will never wonder at the sight
of massive lenticular clouds amassed over
wide autumn valleys, will never feel the giant
triumph of cresting a rocky peak in the broad
Sierra backcountry, will never test and find
his limits or discover what hidden reserves
of strength lie within—will never
                                                actually live.

I can tell you the question itself is misleading,
for it draws all thought away from where
life is—here, now—to a place beyond
the sound of wind in tall desert cottonwoods,
beyond the touch of morning sun on the cheek,
beyond the smell of sagebrush through wide
open windows, beyond the sight
of thunderstorms lumbering flashes of light
in the distance, beyond the electric taste
of love’s first kiss—beyond all that is living.

A more important question, perhaps, is, “What
happens before we die?” After all, this is where
everything takes place.

And for the most part,
                             you get to decide the answer.

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Let’s go down

There was recently a death in my wife’s family. It was no-one I knew. He was close to her father, however, who now lives with us. When something like this happens, my wife will want to visit one of the Catholic churches in town, presumably to pray for the soul of the departed.

Let’s go down

Let’s go down to the masonry
that holds the high-arched doors
and in to the pews beyond them
to offer our inmost prayers.

Let’s go down to the marble font
and cross our heads with the water
as we remember with all our thoughts
one who is no longer with us.

Let’s go down to the heart of the nave
where ancients circle the altar
and bow our heads in the solemn light
that eases the restive soul.

Let’s go down to the effigies
that peer from their quiet coves
and light the vigils with incense sticks
for one who has gone before.

Let’s go down to the redbrick church,
the one where spirits dream,
and kneel at the creaky old wooden pews
to pray for the recent dead.

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Year of Paradox

In a strange sort of way, it’s like coming full circle—but back to what? I don’t know. 35 Julys ago, my father committed suicide. He was 45. Today I turn 45, and I find myself in an incredibly pensive state of mind. It’s not that I fear I’ll end up like him. I have a small child of my own now. I know better. It’s more like for the next year, every day will be a reminder. Every single day. Here I am, alive. Here I am, living my father’s final year—well, part of it. He didn’t make it all that far into his 45th year.

I don’t know. I’m in a state of melancholy right now. Not a state of depression, just melancholy, reflectiveness, bewilderment. Yes, he was abusive, and absolutely terrifying. Yes, he was controlling and incapable of recognizing that a child has only just arrived in life and doesn’t yet know anything. Yes, he didn’t teach and explain, but punished and terrorized. Yes, he came home only after the bars closed and woke us from our sleep and yelled, screamed, dragged us around the house and punched holes in walls. Yes, he had terrible, terrible flaws. But, he was my dad and he also showed love, tenderness and compassion. Did he think I wouldn’t care? Was he trying to hurt me? I don’t know. I really don’t know. And I know I’ll never know. Never.

But what I do know is this. For me, this is a year of paradox, like going back in time or into an alternate reality and meeting myself, my dad, or someone that looks like him or me, and stepping into an entire year of life that is not my own, not his, not anyone’s. Just a crushing and unsolvable paradox.

Year of Paradox

Now begins another year,
    and not just any other year.
  This year begins the paradox
      of all the years that came to now.

Death began this very year
    when years had barely taken root
  in crackled soils of years to come,
      now finally tapping that year of death.

Life burgeons branches into years,
    each year sprouting foliage
  that casts upon the years below
      a shadow reaching for years of life.

New years wax within the mind,
    years of rocky, raw potential,
  but even these are bound to years
      spent fearing years of nothing new.

Old years fade from memory, but
    not the year you formed a noose
  and strangled out all years to be,
      haunting through the years of old.

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The Painter

I have known Heinz since the early 2000s. We met on a poetry site and discovered we had some common interests. Though we have known one another for close to 15 years, I only recently discovered that in 1982, he lost his third child to a tragic accident. If I had learned this before having a child of my own, this may not have hit home. But as a father with a toddler of his own now, I felt tremendous, wrenching empathy for him and his story. It’s a horror every parent hopes to circumvent, period. With these heavy emotions present, I offered to write a memorial poem for his son, Benjamin, and he graciously accepted.

The Painter

for Heinz & Maureen Scheuenstuhl
in memory of Benjamin Patrick Scheuenstuhl
April 1, 1981 — September 7, 1982

I think you would have been a painter, son,
for though you only dreamed through nineteen moons,
you filled my days with color—every one—
and though a lifetime later I still mourn,
the vibrancy of all you were remains
refracted on the canvas of my soul,
reflected in the artwork of my mien.
Your strokes of laughter still adorn the holds
of memory with pigments bright and bold.
The accent of your curiosity
still decorates my thoughts, and still consoles
a grief that burns with black ferocity.
Your masterpiece, with all its wrenching hues
of joy remains enshrined within my heart.

This was an incredible challenge to write. In fact, I had written it near to completion three times before I decided to scrap the idea and try another angle entirely. In the end, I finally decided on this metaphor, explored in the form of a Spenserian sonnet, my 3rd.

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The Old Pain

My sister has commented in the past that I seem to be most drawn to reading and appreciating poetry that deals in some way with the subject of death. Perhaps. Some of my favorite, influencing poems are “Sunshine,” by Robert Service, “The Legend of the Organ Builder,” by Julia Dorr, “The Last Man,” by Thomas Campbell, and “Derelict,” by Young E. Allison. Each of these centers solidly around the subject of death in its own way.

“Sunshine” follows the final thoughts and feelings of a man whose wife has died as he himself succumbs to the same ailment that took her. “The Legend of Organ Builder” tells the story of a young man who wins fame by building a legendary organ that plays of its own accord. He arrogantly abandons his bride, believing she betrayed him and years later, when he realizes his mistake, returns home from abroad just in time to attend her funeral—during which he himself dies. “The Last Man” sets your mental vision on the remains of a dead Earth where the last living human speaks to the setting sun, knowing full well that he himself is soon to follow. “Derelict” leads you across the deck and through the holds of a derelict ship where all hands have perished during a mutiny, ostensibly triggered during a bout of drunken revelry.

So maybe it is no wonder that I find myself drawn to the subject as poet.

The Old Pain

There are too many anniversaries
that haunt the days and years as they go by
and all too many treasured memories
that stir within the old pain to a sigh.

This is the day we met, the maple leaves
that flourish by the driveway, then as now,
were sunset red and swaying in the breeze,
dancing down to dress the walk below.

We paused amid the fumes of regular,
eyes locking for a moment like a spell
was cast between the rooftops of our cars,
enchanting us into a mutual thrall.

By time this maple tree had filled its crown
with lush green cover, we assembled all
our friends and family, and made a vow
to watch as one its colors fade and swell.

The months that followed blurred to a montage,
of salient years, each moment lived in full—
then all at once the sheen of that mirage
dissolved to barren sheets of salt and soil.

The call came in the evening as the sun
sent slanting shades of light across the play
of leaves that only barely had begun
to bob out infant hands in tremulous sway.

Your splintered bones lay tubed to life support—
I just assumed long hours kept you late.
It never once occurred to me your heart
beat faintly in the latexed hands of fate.

I raced to reach your side, to touch your hand,
to seek some indication from the staff
that you would be okay, your golden band
would not become a pendant cenotaph.

But then the surgeons came who strove to hold
your spirit tethered to your heedless form.
They bade me sit—my limbs grew weak and cold
as they explained your limbs were merely warm.

The lightning storm of self behind your brows
had lost its charge—the person that you were
no longer lived within the clay, and now
the clay was all that lived, and nothing more.

For months I hovered near and watched your eyes,
your cheeks, your hands, your every subtle curve,
for any sign that you were still inside,
alive in some mysterious reserve.

But there was nothing, just the rise and fall
of ribs responding to the steady drone
of air pumped through a plastic tube to fill
your lungs that would not function on their own.

Your bones were mended, lacerations healed.
The nurses kept the pressure sores at bay.
For all of this, your soul could not be hailed
back from the stars into that quiet clay.

Insurance coverage tapped and savings gone,
there was no choice except to make the call.
The doctors came—with somber denouement
you were declared as unrecoverable.

I held your hand in both of mine. Machines
were gently disconnected. Line graphs
that danced desultory rhythms on the screens
lost all expression to an air of grief.

To think it happened only blocks from here,
close enough I might have heard the sound
of metal smashing, sirens speeding near
to lift your shattered body from the ground.

To think that as the surgeons cracked your chest
and opened up your skull to free the blood,
I watched the evening news, reclined at rest,
and snacked on crackers in a tranquil mood.

It’s fitting, then—I guess—these maple leaves
turn red as gore around the time we met,
a keen reminder that our vivid lives
lay at the mercy of an unguessed fate.

This is the day we met, a day of cheer—
or so it was a million years ago.
Your ashes dream throughout the tireless years
above the hearth—a ghostly afterglow.

Maybe I use poetry to in some way explore and seek understanding into the concept of death. Maybe the inevitable has so occupied my thoughts since I was still a toddler that it only comes naturally to me now. Maybe it is the one thing we all share, no matter what. Even if there might be some immortal among us, walking through the ages observing our histories, he too must eventually die as the sun expands and incinerates the upper mantle from of our world. Death is something every living thing has in common. It is a bond we all share. So, then, is tragedy, loss, and finding some way to live and move on.

Posted on by EAT

i found God

Photos of Aylan Kurdi, the 3 year old Syrian refugee who drowned in the Aegean Sea off the coast of Bodrum, Turkey, have haunted my thoughts for several weeks now.

i found God

cradled in the pensive palms of earth,
his head rocked slightly in the gentle surge,
caressed by waves that murmured quiet prayers;
his arms lay pale and tranquil at his side,
his legs pulled partly up as if in sleep—
perhaps he slept, but he would never wake.

eyelids lightly closed on sunken dreams,
a cherub cheek lay pressed against dark sands;
and clothes that only hours before were filled
with flames of life and curiosity
now covered only stillness like a bruise,
a shroud still dripping fathoms’ worth of rheum.

peace was on his brow, immeasurable—
such contrast to the violence of his plight;
what circumstance would bring a child here
curled sleeping cold and graying on the shore,
his shrieks of laughter silenced to a sigh
caught strangled in the throats of passersby?

this is God, i thought, in all his glory—
we praise with words his name, then turn and plunge
him flailing in the dark of angry seas
until his strength plays out and every breath
is filled with brine—and sudden quietude—
just flotsam on the altars of the deep.

yes—i found God on the beach today,
the seagulls circled high above his head
and cried their long and steady mournful calls;
the people saw him and they knelt in prayer,
hands clutching at their heaving, hollowed breasts,
all hope of penance ripped from out their souls.

If fatherhood has given me anything, it is an incredible pain in my chest at the sight of a dead, abused or impoverished child. I see the eyes of my baby son in the face of every child. I’ve heard it said that God is revealed in the face of our children, in their innocence, love and wonder. If this is true, then there is no hope of salvation for any of us, for we are all responsible and we all bear the shame of such atrocities.