Poem: Every Death Has A Story

Every Death Has a Story

The building stands like a boxer, punch drunk, 

a fresh coat of paint on the front, 

the back and foundations battered, 

abandoned, 

the slow erosion of time and neglect leaving

a facade, waiting for the final beam to crack

or for the wrecker's ball to strike

one final blow, 

to end the song, silence the music

that once lifted the hearts, like you, 

now worn, now waiting, 

a fraction, nay

less than that, of who and what you were, 

still savable, but failing, struggling, 

unwilling to collapse, 

unable to rise, 

echoes of opera and burlesque, 

of soul dancing and moments of frivolous courage, 

all resound in the silence, 

you look at the whitewashed walls, 

aware

that every death has a story, 

even before it comes. 

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The pictures of are of the old Equinox Opera House, in Manchester Vermont. It was recently approved for demolition by the town, so it's days are numbered. You can click on it for a larger view, or visit my facebook album to see more shots. 

The Title was blatantly stolen from the New York Times, who take someone from the obituaries and fleshes out their life in a column called "Every Life Tells a Story." I am not an obituary reader, but that title gave me the idea.

Tom 

Poem: Information Please

Information Please

The graveyard glistens in the February snow,
almost inviting, calling
as if to say,

"Come,
it is peaceful here, and time
has no power."

And you stand at the gate, wishing
it would speak more clearly,
and tell you not if there was another side,
but what was there

and would the choirs sing Lou Reed,
while the sweet smell of onions on the grill
fill the crystal air of heaven? Or

would it be an empty place,
a false light, leading
to darkness more eternal than fear.

You shudder. The snow, you notice is melting.
You turn from the gateway, to live,
at least for today.

=================

Yesterday, on my way home from Church, I passed this graveyard near West Hebron, New York and I passed it, then turned back when I caught a glimpse of something: The graveyard had an information box!

Somehow, I HAD to write a poem to that!

Tom

PS - as always you can click on the picture to get a larger version.

Poem: The Leaves Change

The Leaves Change

The leaves change
as weather turns cold,
as autumn winds
bearing the smell of wood stoves
and decay,
swirl and dance their macabre minuet.

The leaves change,
a beautiful dying,
each day brighter, more vibrant
until autumn winds,
howling with winterous venom
rip the color away.

The leaves change,
a preparation, not for death,
but transformation
that laughs at death,
at winter,


certain
of spring.


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The picture was taken some time ago, right near the border of Rupert and Pawlet, Vermont. You can click on it for a larger version. That's my faithful Isuzu Trooper far in the background, the perfect vehicle for a photographer - all toughness and glass.

Tom

Poem: Meditation on Life

Meditation on Life

The skull sits on velvet,
mocking any permanence you conjor
in your mind, in your heart, knowing
that in times, you will become his twin,

unless
you learn to dance,
share your wonderment like a child,
fingerpaint,
sing with abandon in the midst of strangers,
leave love in the laps of chidren,
create, even badly,
dare to fail,
dare to succeed,
dare to touch others,
and more frighteningly,
dare to let them touch you.

=========================

The picture was taken at the Sterling Renaissance Festival yesterday, as I visited there with my son and daughter. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom