The Funeral

We walk amidst the stones and the green grass cut to a certain length
we wonder if the widow who leans heavily on Uncle Tom's arm will
fall away from him, the slump of her grief draining away from the
removal of all she loved, the loss of his quiet solitary strength.
I find myself wishing for a gentle fall of rain, misting the black coats
of the funeral party as we wander through the sentinels of the deceased,
some engravings call out, demanding the focus of our roving eyes as
we struggle to maintain the sobriety of that this occasion denotes.
My thought is this, as the men with their long steel shovels begin,
is this all we are reduced to, a coffin, some tears, a few flowers soon
to be gone, disappearing into the soft brown loam of the ground,
was it all for this we live, to survive living, some renown to win.
Who will remember us longer for more than how we ended up dying?
no one will recall our obituary or eulogy or that story from cousin Saul,
fading away like the hymn that we will all try to sing in tune at the hole
everyone will be recognized for caring enough to attend, thanked for the
effort, the love, the words, even if for some of us it was just lying.

We walk away from that we all feared more than this his death,
wanting to be elsewhere, far from the silence that permeates the day
the remembrances of those things he did, more than the words that
he may or may not have said, with his passing, his final breath.
What was the bitter truth is no longer as important of what there is to save
of the scraps that he left behind, who gets what, we go on without him,
dividing what we think defined him, missing the importance of what
happened as we walked together as one to find his grave.

Puddles of Sweat

I feel the bite of the steel as I thrust it forward, until
a limit is reached, the grunt that makes me the beast
rushes out all at once, the strain surpasses the pain
as once again I force myself to face my fears, this
is what it is to push past the couch, past the tears
of self recrimination, past the doubts, the midnight
snacking, past the stacking of regret.
I stand in the middle, the weight of iron is in my hands
the tension in my muscle, I become one with the effort
this is what little bit of life I can command, this is what
my credo respects, this is what repentance demands.
I will take the chance that nothing will come from
this extremity, this dance of stretching bands, this
repetitions of sets, the ante is up, time to bet.
I crouch in the corner, bottle of water in my grip,
a prayer of from the former slob, take another sip
from the wells of respiration, finding purpose in the
effort, feel the chalk on my skin, take all my anger
within, push away exhaustion, sloth, drop into
the zone, find your mindset, remember what they
should say: Nothing is accomplished without
a puddle of sweat.

It hasn't happened yet.

I feel her ghost whenever I come into the room,
the presence sends chills, melancholic gloom,
wishing for whispers, echoes of my own regret
I want to get over her loss, I want to move on,
I want many things, but none of it has happened yet.

I hear her voice, in  monotone, inside my inner ear
as if enunciation is too intimate for me to hear,
words are just too cruel, sounds are a better bet,
she's inside my head, I know that she's really dead,
I know might be going crazy, but it hasn't happened yet.

I feel her warmth whenever I lie there waiting for sleep
I touch the depression in our bed, soft and deep,
tears are now dried, this is as bad as it will ever get,
the fairy tales lied, happy ever afters denied,
I want to forget her face, it would be the safest bet.

I try to talk to her, expecting no response, anyway,
we're like ships passing in the night, drifting away,
I should have said goodbye, I just wanted to forget,
now I am haunted by my own guilty suspicions,
I should move on, but it still hasn't happened yet.