Elegy for a Friend

 That he could exist; a lover and a friend;

The poet sat quietly weighing the long wait

Across the lands of love and beyond dark sea’s portend

For all certainty is lost - when cruel silence holds fate.

A poem of the lovely Virginia who loved her poetry man;

Her knight and companion through to the very end.

The poet keeps flowers in mind - along with his feathered friends

At the Sparrow Café – it is his redemption and his great joy.

Fantasies of what might have been.

Regrets for all that was unseen.

Waiting – morning’s light

The extended nights are their own fright:

Watching; waiting; wondering if breath seeks life,

“Is she lost in there; alone; afraid of her strife?”

Preoccupied by the napkins she forms

Into patterns that still mean something; something of bliss.

“Oh, my holy god! Can you not see this amiss?

She is lost in her own world darkened by storms!”

The poet tends his garden of flowers - florets of phlox;

Budding mulberries leaving their purple stains upon an old wooden box;

Tips of day lilies and daffodils pushing forth the sleeping soil;

Hues of violets amidst a realm of Indian Strawberries blooming in yellow roil;

Clover abounds all around and tiny blue florets hint their presence – too;

Time for the Magnolia’s to dominate the foreground as the Peonies crew

A border ‘round the garden as Tulips praise the sol!

For survival is a reprieve of winter’s cold hand on newborn and old.

The great Junipers stand tall to bring forth fine memories set

Forth to flood the shores of the heart with sorrow of loss and regret

Leaving a vast void – where violet and vines stand with the cold sadness.

It is eleven-eleven twice a day

And yet, each moment is frozen to a time long ago;

To a memory; a friend with precious gifts. What say

Poet? Give and forgive what time has left behind to know.

In a room full of things that help but do not matter – much

She sits alone with her mind closed as such

To most of what life has left aside;

To hold and love a keepsake set to hold beside.

Knowing time is failing and slipping away.

“I fear the very thought of one less minute every day

Sleep my princess – I am here; I will be here

And you will always remain very near.

Shall I sing your songs once more my dear?”

The chaos of life struggling to survive

There is no time for chores; nor routines of ordinary thrive.

The drum beats ever so slowly as my heart bleats one more cry

Leaving me exhausted to continue the wait and my soul sighs.

When keys no longer open nor lock;

When songs have no key to hold on to;

Senseless hands no longer key time upon the faceless clock;

Even the open broken door begs for a knock!

The maps are all wrong - they cannot find you

Because there is no such place left;

The chimes sit eerily still while waiting a breeze to cue

And I am inside of the outside with no way in; bereft

Sewing together what is left of my shattered heart

And for the moment – the expiring of my soul

That waits to know how near is - the eternal cold.

Forgetting can be a casual lapse; taken by distraction

Or forgetting can be trauma; endured by a mind’s attenuation

Forgetting can be a gentle swim into eternity’s waters

Or a harrow in the narrow where Scylla and Charybdis wait in quarters.

The vicissitudes of change ask not for better nor worse

They simply come to be like the season’s lore

Bringing foster to regret and to remorse

Or a vase of fresh cut flowers to adore.

In midst of winter rang the dolorous bells;

Ponderous and barren of melody telling of toll

Of wives, friends and lovers sailing away in fold.

A beautiful sylph who dared the darkness.

A poet and painter who dared the darkness.

A friend stricken in silence dared the darkness.

And so, walk alone amongst the sea shells

Find light in the darkness; always the darkness.

That one may forget

And remembering is now a bridge too far set

From the shores of love and joy in all things done.

I promise it will never be too far away to abandon

Lest we all go blind and forget.

That life is a looking glass – it sees close

And it still views her classic pose.

But it is not a portal to return through or oppose

Nor own, refuse or reject – there is only one.

This looking glass can not be given nor won.

What a good cup of coffee proves;

all needed is fresh, black and hot!

That is enough – I ask, why not?

Life is a path of bumps, cracks, with many deep grooves-

No sweetener; no creamer – no fluff no stuff.

Just hot black and my familiar old cup- I am up!

Spilling sentences, thoughts, views, desires

Across a page that stands blank yet, fires

Kindled with cured dry words, rising smoke as a lovely rose

And painted with words of poetry and prose.

What words do you hold

That explain - what has happened?

Do your powers of prose rise to the moment?

Can a poet’s mastery of words satisfy

The plaintiff cries; the tears; the messenger’s dour?

Do your PoeTrees say enough

About her loveliness that led you away

From the woods - away from darkness

And into the clearing of joy.

Until one day the darkness kept her hand

And left you to walk alone with a book of words.

Alone at that table with the coffee stains

Distilled by the many tears fallen

For her music - stopped playing.

That he could exist; a lover and a friend

The poet sat quietly weighing the long wait

Across the lands of love and beyond dark sea’s portend

For all certainty is lost - when cruel silence holds fate.

A poem of the lovely Virginia who loved her poetry man;

Her knight and companion through to the very end.

Dedicated to: Virginia, Phil and Bill

Written for:  Ken