Testament
To say this is a last will implies that there were others,
that I was a force in life and the rigid world would bend
in my fumbling hands. I think not, and you know the joke.
‘Lil Bit and Wifey, you know the heap loads pain
I tried to stomp out like smoldering cigarettes on cold slabs.
But, the world seduced my toddler heart, begged me please
behind your backs, promised me wonders and all hungers met,
left me always asking which reward I get.
What tumbles your hearts must be brewing. What crumblings
your worlds must be enduring. Though, that may be presumptuous.
I fear you feel relief, a dropping of weight, a burden, a heavy load.
Those thoughts must go, I beg. I wasn’t bad, was I?
Surely sometime I brought smiles and happies, made you feel
safe and reassured. I wanted you to believe all struggle fell below
your feet each day. I wanted confidence in your hearty hearts,
to be a simple spark to get you to the start.
At some point your days will restore to normal,
and my permanent vacancy won’t shine or seem a whelming flood.
There may even be other men stomping about, turning day’s end to smiles.
Then, don’t think of me on Christmas or birthdays or at evening meals.
Don’t see me sideways out blinking eyes that blur with tears.
Remember me from time to time, but not as the meddlesome clown
or the heavy-handed rager, not as the far-removed, though near,
shipwrecked reader, pretending to listen, yet never once to hear.
I want your thoughts to be on common things good God gives us most.
A frying egg that smokes the house, a mislaid book and red pen
beside a ruffled, dented chair. No sunsets or sun-ups but shadows
in the first Spring’s oaks. The dust motes swirling in light rays
beaming through the living room. Those are where my thoughts
roamed when thoughts still came in quiet moments, the rushed
swelling subsiding, ceding to sighs and sudden closed eyes,
seeing the rampant vanity and all the time-loss as distracting lies.
Now I’m down and out, forever gone in flesh and earthly stroll,
take all that’s left as your very own. Cherish some. Burn the rest.
Advertise a garage sale of my days. Give to charity what isn’t a shame.
This box now, this little air, these layers soil tumbled above
are levels of lessons I should have dug, should have studied more,
should have wholly known by beating heart and able mind.
Yet, it was good when it was good. The uglies need no extra time.
Dears, into whatever breach lies ahead, I go with thoughts of you in rhyme.
that I was a force in life and the rigid world would bend
in my fumbling hands. I think not, and you know the joke.
‘Lil Bit and Wifey, you know the heap loads pain
I tried to stomp out like smoldering cigarettes on cold slabs.
But, the world seduced my toddler heart, begged me please
behind your backs, promised me wonders and all hungers met,
left me always asking which reward I get.
What tumbles your hearts must be brewing. What crumblings
your worlds must be enduring. Though, that may be presumptuous.
I fear you feel relief, a dropping of weight, a burden, a heavy load.
Those thoughts must go, I beg. I wasn’t bad, was I?
Surely sometime I brought smiles and happies, made you feel
safe and reassured. I wanted you to believe all struggle fell below
your feet each day. I wanted confidence in your hearty hearts,
to be a simple spark to get you to the start.
At some point your days will restore to normal,
and my permanent vacancy won’t shine or seem a whelming flood.
There may even be other men stomping about, turning day’s end to smiles.
Then, don’t think of me on Christmas or birthdays or at evening meals.
Don’t see me sideways out blinking eyes that blur with tears.
Remember me from time to time, but not as the meddlesome clown
or the heavy-handed rager, not as the far-removed, though near,
shipwrecked reader, pretending to listen, yet never once to hear.
I want your thoughts to be on common things good God gives us most.
A frying egg that smokes the house, a mislaid book and red pen
beside a ruffled, dented chair. No sunsets or sun-ups but shadows
in the first Spring’s oaks. The dust motes swirling in light rays
beaming through the living room. Those are where my thoughts
roamed when thoughts still came in quiet moments, the rushed
swelling subsiding, ceding to sighs and sudden closed eyes,
seeing the rampant vanity and all the time-loss as distracting lies.
Now I’m down and out, forever gone in flesh and earthly stroll,
take all that’s left as your very own. Cherish some. Burn the rest.
Advertise a garage sale of my days. Give to charity what isn’t a shame.
This box now, this little air, these layers soil tumbled above
are levels of lessons I should have dug, should have studied more,
should have wholly known by beating heart and able mind.
Yet, it was good when it was good. The uglies need no extra time.
Dears, into whatever breach lies ahead, I go with thoughts of you in rhyme.
posted by shakes at 1:39 PM
3 Comments:
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I love the form: the longish lines—the subtle rhyme & sound devices—the rhythm. It must be read aloud. And yet to hear it aloud might be too much, not wanting to consider the occasion of the speech.
A dramatic monologue worthy of Browning but with the bite of our modern/postmodern life that he (Victorian)could not have known.
It disposes of the postmodern's existential sloppiness and makes room for the internal truth that eats away at us all our thinky lives and leaves our best parts to mingle as dust when we die—to be swallowed and breathed by those we leaves behind or those whose boot-soles trample us.
The final stanza is riveting:
Yet, it was good when it was good. The uglies need no extra time.
Dears, into whatever breach lies ahead, I go with thoughts of you in rhyme.
A brilliant poem. It may well steer you in your next direction (formally) and gives us all something to work towards (both formally and poetically, but in living too).
In a word: thanks.
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