A Life

A Poem by John

collection of recently written poems

Inked in the skin a heart, a name,
A memorable year:
Such confidence when we were young,
The words, the numbers clear;
Now we are old, the body shows
A precarious smear.

At least, thank God, the rutting heart
Has left the cradle bare.
The words, the gifts, the promises
Produced no spiffing heir
To seek and find a brave new world
With which they hoped to share.

***

Dab your wet eyes with a hanky,
Keep count of the tears that you shed,
Sing of the life everlasting,
And speak ill or good of the dead,
Confess, if you like, to confusion,
The last words are yours to be said.
Rather than cry, why not boo hoo:
People dying is what people do.

At least to the last who's standing,
The one at the end of the queue,
The one who nervously glances
Behind at the one who is you,
Who, in turn, while shuffling forward,
Keeps the front and the rear in view.
Rather than cry, why not boo hoo:
People dying is what people do.

At last, when no longer standing,
And no longer head of the line,
The head no longer for turning
And seeing what is yours could be mine,
Will you sound off or will you not breathe
A word, like an ancient divine?
Rather than cry, why not boo hoo:
People dying is what people do.

***

I don't smoke for myself but for my lungs.
They hold a cigarette, like a pair of tongs,
And breathe the smoke like an intake of breath,
As if without this rush life would be death.

You say I've swallowed 'the preposterous pill',
Unlike most people who deny free will,
And claim, without God's plan, life makes no sense
(Though never used in court as a defence).

So, do not judge, you who’d cast the first stone:
My body is made up of flesh and bone.
I listen to the parts; they speak in tongues.
I don't smoke for myself but for my lungs.

***

Someone called you by your name.
Ah, to deny.
Should you, could you, even deign
To reply?

Breathing beyond memory
In a space without a sense,
Here, where ever here is,
A weight, a life, a presence.