Of Last Things

As I awoke this morning with
an urge to write
of nothing in particular, I thought
of endings I have written of before.
and of the many times nostalgia
that I hated as a youth, settled once again
upon its throne of reverie

and I, weak-spirited, would welcome it
again, my mindless old reward
for having staved-off dying
one or two more years.  This flimsy
basket filled with tear-stained baubles
still so comforting, how cliche-worn...

No!  Centuries not yet come or gone,
will tremble in the wake
of one last handshake that I made,
one final, intense gaze into the eyes
of someone you might never even know,
go in the archive of creation--
and its opposites!

Those, too, were hands that engaged mine,
focused eyes upon a moment
binding me forever in the sweep of history
as breath and cataclysm each prevail
and joins the line of march.

Comfort indeed that here is not
the arbiter of truth.  Here I am fed,
and the uncertainty is my sustainer.
I too tremble with the dawn, and in
my sleep-logged mind I trace again
the little moments when I sighted Paradise
and quickly left because it was
too much.  Now they are gone.

I no longer see these last things
in my basket, yet I know they live
somewhere.  I sense them,
feel their strange intensity
and stranger still, their fortitude
revealed in my prophetic daydreams
of a life beyond the grave.

Or then, perhaps, an astral  prophecy
of now?
      ~

Reviews

[Beccy]

Our time on earth is but a blink of the creators eye, plenty of time though for that last handshake.
As for the next level, my father is quite fond of telling me that unlike Dylan Thomas, he is quite happy to go gentle into the good night, and expects my sister and I to mourn wrapped in the fondness of love and good memories, rather than anger and despair.

Really enjoyed this.

Beccy.

[Dean]

Thanks. What you say is very true

[Linda Marie Van Tassell]

These lines were the first to reach out and grab me:

"This flimsy
basket filled with tear-stained baubles
still so comforting, how cliche-worn..."

I can't even begin to explain how this poem reaches me. At 45, I have been very reflective of late, pondering all things past, things that should have been and never will be, and those unknowns yet to be. I guess that's one good thing about traveling halfway down the highway ... you can look forward or back ... the view from the middle often causes pause.

No matter the distance of life ... be it 20, 40, or 60 years, the greatest distance yet to travel is within. We intuitively grasp for more, not sure of what the more is, yet always grasping for it.

I love the intellect and wisdom of your years. It makes me appreciate the grasp for more, the more that I know comes with age, the more that always makes us thirst.

Bless you!

[Dean]

So good to see you back again, Linda! Your words are always helpful, and frequently very satisfying. I certainly agree with you about distances. They are never too far, yet always pulling me forward.

[Frontier]

Excellent, I loved every line of this. Quite a write for the way you started, with nothing in particular. The ending, adds a twist, who knows maybe thats what life beyond the grave is...

[Dean]

Thanks. I do look forward to it!

[h d e rushin]

this eternity, as evidence of existence of past civilizations, those postdiluvial, those post Y2K, is
only feasible if there are those intentional signposts; markers in the sanstone, literature,
drawings, textual data, photographs, bones, hell even poems as downpayment for future generations.
If you tell me I might die, there's a chance I wont believe you..But if you tell me i'm dying
and this poetic phophecy is in fact as close to paradise as I might get, then life beyond the grave
is the purest Christian bullshit know to mankind.

But I believe Dean that there is a God. A God not of reason and mystery, but a God
that takes my side in all matters physical, mental and subsequently emotional. Is this a continuum
of your poem "in praise of Mystery"? Both were spiritually blessed. It must be hard as hell,
or easy as the wind to write like this.

good work,
dana

[Dean]

Last things are in themselves, enigma. I don't think it is possible to summarize them. The existence of God may indeed depend upon ourselves. Otherwise we must presume that it is bigger than we are, and that of course is the height of vanity, isn't it? Who are we to define it? So I must disagree with you. God is not a god, but God! Who may presume to have opinions on that?

Thanks for the perceptive review! :-)

[h d e rushin]

that is my point exactly Dean. God, not the contrary, restive perverse, balky, wayward deity
who because of his human association, has some temperamental unwillingness,
but the God exalted divine whether dana exists, or whether he doesn't. Anything else and
he (or she) can be reduced the stroke of a keyboard, a sound bite, or that 6x8 photo that
hung over my Grandma's chest-of-drawers. Or, heavens forbid, just like me and you. But I
do understand...dana

[Dean]

I've stopped speculation on what
God is like. Too big for me.

[Marie]

You've put down good, solid work and will continue to do so. Your memories are not worth as much as your potential.

[Dean]

Thank you, Marie

[Ken Simm.]

One that I feel not only needs experience to write, (stunningly well, I hasten to add) but I feel also to read and get the full experience as it were. A lot of experience there then.

[Dean]

Thanks, Ken. I wish I could have been more succinct. The subject so fascinates me.