He sits at his place by the hearth
And he absorbs all that
he sees.
Like a sentinel at the
tower’s kype
A nonagenarian with
pallid swarth
Major Arch Ives keeper
of books
And knower of the wars
known by a number.
He reads chronicles of movements
and battles
As time keeps still - while he looks.
The Major holds court
at his familiar coffee-shop nook.
The chair and table
could never be in rime
Without passersby
submitting their waivers
That Major Ives knows
life; he is no rook.
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He tells of hailing from a city of Grove
And then traveling to a
Grove of sugar.
With new bride and Lassie
pups to raise
He reminisces, “Life’s
dreams were our trove.”
The days were golden
with nectar ever so sweet.
The sun light was right,
and it all made sense.
When came Tia - then
another; and another
And his bride could
move no longer; stillness was replete.
Ten years went by and
so went life’s circles
From a Grove to a small
place near a Square
Where the Major could
be near her care
And his stillness keeps:
“Only memories without miracles”.
The Major sits alone pursuing
his books of history
Says he regrets leaving
City of Grove,
“Perhaps she would not have
been stricken.
- If only; if only …
MacArthur had stayed at
the Bataan Peninsula”.
Now The
Keep is full misery.
Major Arch Ives awaits the
last chapter’s write
And prays and believes that
those small strokes
Will give him the power
to keep death at bay.
He muses, “Now, I keep
wait for a major to take the Major”.
Seems only right.
What we keep - cannot;
will not be held.
What we see, as age changes
visions,
Are the stones and the jewels
that we once strewn
About with open hands and
foolish hearts not in weld.
The impermanence of a
candle’s light
Keeps the encompassing
dark away;
Keeps a heightened breath
quiet;
And in The Keep – flickers an ever-dimming sight.
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