….

Cold is the color

    of mid-winter hoar;

gold is a feeling

    I felt once before.

Nineteen-seventy

    I hereby declare

the end of involvement,

   unfairness of war.

So near and so far,

    too close for some,

one dearly departed

    from what once begun

as gold, now cold,

    in the hot humid sun:

This is your weapon;

    that was your gun.

The child knows his pleasure,

    when the man looses fun.

©2013, Marvin Loyd Welborn

I’ve been thinking a lot about death lately. One week ago, last Saturday; my maternal grandmother celebrated her 80^th birthday. We talked on the phone for about twenty minutes or so. It made me happy to hear she was doing well. It’s always a bright spot talking with her.

The next day, I got a phone call from my father. My Great-grandmother, Earlene Stone, had passed away. In a few months she would have been 105 years old.  Today is her funeral.

A few days after getting the phone call from my dad, Pat sent me an email with a poem that he couldn’t get out of his head. The poem is titled “Do Not Go Gentle Into the Good Night” by Dylan Thomas. According to Pat, Thomas wrote the poem for his father, who was dying.

—

Thorn to the brow

Spare no sting

Pressed and weary

Doubting minds

Project the prospects

 .

Lash to the back

Peel the skin

Opened and naked

Ravenous hordes

Forfeit the appetite

 .

Nail to the wrist

Twice more the tale

Bruised and afflicted

Desperate soil

Drink the purest blood

 .

Spear to the side

Grasp the air

Washed and forsaken

Driving rains

Caress the landscape

.

The howl is a sacred sound
lingering in the air like
early morning midst, filling
me with longing.

I would like to how like
that, throat vibrating in
perfect resonance, proclaiming
my longing for all to know
until at last I slide into
the shadows leaving only the
final not hovering in the dawn.

My lips hunger for the redemption

that can only be found in a soldiers kiss.

A cooling gaze, to temper my emotions

to prolong the agony before perfect bliss.