Poetry: Perhaps

It’s Monday and a great day for art and poetry!  Every Monday night is Poetry Night open mic in downtown Bellingham.  Last week Robert gave out a prompt that I couldn’t resist: What should be done with your body upon your death.  All week I’ve been thinking about this.  What writer doesn’t enjoy writing or thinking about death- the last great unknown.  After all it’s the ending of the story that has the most power to the reader.  Perhaps writers would like to think they have some control over HOW they die, as they may with their characters?  I wrestled with all sort of ideas and came up with this:


Where my body lies
Perhaps some purple crocus
Will mark my grave
Only exposing the location
Once a year in early March.
Bud-green stalks
Protruding out about
A slushy snow

Where my body lies
Perhaps a coyote
Will come by for brunch
Munch on my decayed muscle,
Cracking the bone
For it’s sweet marrow.
That night when it howls
Nose pointed upward
My soul will follow suit,
Floating towards the moon

Where my body lies
Perhaps a condor
Will pick my bones clean
On a warm canyon floor,
Saving the smaller pieces
For its nesting babes.
Larger chunks, to big to carry
dark and red, sun themselves
As they recline against
speckled stones

Wherever I land
Perhaps even in a coffin,
Tombstone to mark it or not,
I hope an impression
That a body lays beneath
Would be noticed
Would be heard
Would be stirred
Back into the world
To which I was born




Poetry: No Marrow

I watch you
Hoping around the twigs
Hanging upside down
From the tiniest sliver of wood
Light and carefree
Yet obviously well fed
Beautiful colors
Lovely song
“Be more like the birds
They don’t worry”, I think
How can I when my bones
Are not filled with air
But of heavy marrow?
Heavy with duty and plans
Weighed down with projects
Slighted by calendar dates
And numbers that don’t add up
My human flight drags by
Day to day, no bouncing here
But a determined searching
Looking for morsels to feed the spirit
Think like a bird-
I could be one-
Is it the state of mind that matters?
Or the transformation?
And when do the two become one?
Mind and matter
Flight and fancy
Living and alive
We are cousins little bird
As you hop around the maple
Barren of summer leaves
I watch and learn
My untamed past stirs in the blood
Reminding me of the origins
Forcing breath of life into
The marrow that weighs me down