Dancing On the Grave

October 6, 2010
My dear sister, Annette, asked me to pen a poem to be read at her funeral. It's not that she's dying--far from it as far as I know--she just wants to be prepared. This is actually two poems in one--she's special.


Dancing On the Grave
(A Song of Rejoicing
for the Funeral of my Sister, Annette Smith
written well before she moved on)

So you think this is a victory
because my vocal chords are silenced
and laughter no longer bounces off
my tongue through the gap in my teeth
that will fall to the floor of this box.

You think this is loss
because my hands are folded flat
and not clapping to the heartbeat
no longer beating
the song beat of a different heart.

Do you believe this is the end
because my lifeless limbs
don't sway in the Wind in the dust;
and the dust will devour my flesh,
and the Wind will blow it where it will?

This is just the beginning.
My arms now move
to a whole new groove.
I am one with the Wind
and the dust don't keep me down.

This is gain.
My hands are lifted high applauding
the one beat,
the only beat,
the eternal beat.

Ha! This is a victory.
Hear my song.


Annette's Song

The Lord has brought me through.
My God has made a way.
Jesus carried me.

Your Word lead me.
Your Spirit moved me.
Your Presence guided me.

And I lived my life in You.
And You lived Your life through me.
And we lived our life as one.

Before Your throne I kneel.
Before Your power I bow.
Before Your majesty I lay myself down.

In the company of all the saints, I lift my voice to You.
In the sight of all the angels, I sing Your praise.
In Your presence, I worship.

I worship Your name.
I adore Your name.
I love Your name.

And I have a new name.
And though I have always known Your name,
it is new.

YES!
YES!
YES!

Bless You Lord.
Bless You God.
Bless You Jesus.

Jesus.
Jesus.
Jesus.

Shooting Star (for Douglas)

(November 13, 2007)
Douglas was my nephew. He was barely in his twenties when he was hit by a car while riding his bicycle.


I saw a shooting star
          last night
in a foggy sky,
quickly shot through the dark—
          too quick.
A glance away
          and you would miss it.
I guess that's what makes them
          special.

A speck of light falling
          to wherever stars go.
And if you happened to glance
          it's descent,
you've connected with the heavens.

But the connection is cut short
          and regardless of your ties
          or knots untied;
no matter the light years
          or miles that separate,
we are all still connected
to the shooting star.

Senseless (in memory of Ricardo Bailey who died of a gunshot while just being there for his cousin)

(November 7, 2006)

I had not worked with Ricardo for very long. He was a nice guy; had a good time at work. I closed the restaraunt with him the night he was killed. I think that's why it impacted me so much.


Senseless.
No sense.
Make sense
          of the violent,
          of violence,
          of vile, of bile
scattered on the ground;
shattered on the ground;
splattered on the grounds
          that there are no grounds;
          it's groundless
          on the ground
found
          emptied,
          unloaded;
lost
          life;
                    left behind
          life
found;
fill with sense,
          sensation,
cessation of senselessness.

Death of a Prophet (dedicated to Ron Gatrelle; pastor, brother, friend)

(May 2006)

And the man of God was laid to rest today.
The speaker used the word prophet
     with an uncapitalized “p”
     (I don't think he dared).
     He didn't personally know the man—
          the man of God—
          the vessel that
          though cracked and chipped and scratched
               poured out
               what was poured in.
               (How could that hold water?)

Well, they said,
He's dead…
     guess we were
     wrong/right
     about him.

But Prophets die,
(they're not immortal you know)
     and occasionally another one
     comes along behind him.
     (Faster. Stronger. Better than before.)

Besides,
     does the Truth die?
     Do prophesies fade?
     The grass still grows
          after the tree is but a stump.

Anyway,
     the man of God moved on,
     shedding the cocoon of this life
     for the wings of the next.

And whether we liked
     the coarse, imperfect human being,
     (how many true prophets are really well-liked?)
     the facts of the words
          that were not his
          remain.

Gray and Gritty

(May 4, 2002)
Stanley and his wife delivered the Sunday paper. They always came into the Waffle House just before I finished the night shift. He would give me a copy of the paper and always ordered the same thing. To most people he didn't seem very friendly, but he and I got along just fine.


In memory of Stanley Alligood
August 20, 1939-May 2, 2002
“If he liked you, he liked you;
if he didn’t, he didn’t.”

Gray and gritty darkening dawn
brought the Sunday paper loosely covered
with plastic.

Ambled over, shuffled greeting;
over medium, coffee black.

Graveled joking
understood in
gleaming mischievous eyes
(mistaken meanness).

Wink a wink.
Grin a grin.
Heh!

Gray and gritty darkening dawn;
aluminum foil folded tightly over
leftover ham.

Shuffled out, muffled grouch;
hearty heartfelt
“Take it easy, boss.”

Shed a tear.
Wink a wink.
Grin a grin.
Heh heh.