Friday, May 31, 2019

My Last Bike


    I was in the right lane --
    Something wrong with my
    Crankcase and looking back
    I saw a line of oil streaming
    Out behind as a truck not
    Seeing nudged me off
    And down an embankment.

    Later, Susan wide-eyed
    Listened to my tale
    And between sobs said
    She had never until just
    Then imagined my death.
    I no longer ride - the
    Streets being crooked

    And my eyesight
    And hearing failing.
    But I may have wept
    Considering her death
    As it crept alongside
    And nudged her
    Out of my life.


    She sang softly, breathing
    Notes – not boldly, but
    With assurance
    Which glowed with
    Ethereal incandescence
    She alone could feel.
    I looked up from

    Her striving to
    Seek sense from those
    Sounds.  Her rhythm
    Slowed as her breathing
    Failed, her music
    Lapsed into gasping. 
    I followed her

    Down her tonal   
    Pathway, breathing in time
    With her breath all that
    Remained – the words
    She sang with those
    Lyrics, those melodies,
    I never comprehended.


    I render those days as
    Colorful as they sometimes
    Seem still, and the ringing
    In the town sounding again --
    Muted though by time even if
    Something still remains –
    Crushed stone, perhaps

    The bell.  Perhaps the steps
    Down from the church and
    Around the corner to the
    Library where when she
    Needed books my grandmother
    Took me.  I reveled in
    Them as well and still do

    Though I no longer
    Listen for the bell,
    And whatever ringing
    There is may be
    Illusion only and the
    Words still here arrange
    Themselves quite differently.

DNA on the rocks


    It wasn’t always true
    But now there is much new
    Under the sun.  With each
    Generation variables
    Cause some of us to dream
    Loud enough to drown out

    Normal means of thinking
    And speak to each other
    In a language we fail
    To understand.  No wonder
    We drink or fly from
    Frustration to drugs.
    We can’t recall all

    Of whatever is ripping
    Itself out through our eyes,
    Broached with our fingers. 
    You say Nature will select us out
    Of existence, but we know
    How to think around corners
    Clear through solid walls.