Farewell.

Goodbye.

Thanks for the memories.

Now I am the only soul who knows, recalls

Those heady days

When laughter ruled.

 

My whining-weeping-choking bothered you and justly so.

You went about your job with dignity, as always, with such class.

Life ends.  You knew in blood and bones.

Literally.

 

So you took care of your farewells.

House. Car.  Your books and photographs,

Our record–all dispersed.

You, waiting in the hospice, phoning me,

Your absent friend, to say you’re leaving.

 

Permanently

Our world–the one of cars with faulty gears

And morning push-starts from the hill,

Breath blowing brighter than the car’s exhaust.

 

I cannot cope with such a rending of my heart:

No sound without an ear to hear

Just like a memory for one.

What’s past has gone away.

 

And who has won this home:

To have the tears flow down the cheeks

Yet carefully cried so not to

Shake the bed,

And never made a sound?

 

And who has earned this prize:

To hear the love words pouring out

Yet not one common meaning found

Amid the flood,

And never made a sound?

 

And who has got this place?

To know those birthed and treasured

Cannot understand the joy or gift nor

Guess what was,

And never made a sound?

 

Be not deceived or proud:

Our by-gone sisters, long ahead of us,

Have mastered all the arts

Of hurt and pain and loneliness.

And never made a sound.

 

 

February 2006

 

 

 

Clear spirit, pure, true, is my Sam,

Heart light with laughter and good cheer

Who leaps to life with sinews stretched—

How much I wish you all life’s joys.

 

Comforting, kindly, caring soul,

Attending those whose lives touch yours,

And spreading joy around your world—

How much I wish you comfort, too.

 

Bright, curious, thoughtful, busy mind,

You hear the songs that our words sing,

You catch the story people live—

How much I wish you time to learn.

 

Lovely and graceful brown-eyed girl,

Who’s stopping hearts with just a glance,

Sincere and godly, sweetness fresh—

How much I wish you wisdom, too.

 

Small bunch of pluck now grown full-size

Past all the bumps and minor falls,

Life’s mountain heights confront you now—

How much I wish you clear-marked trails.

 

How can I say how much I love

The very gist of you, the zest,

The harmony you bring my soul—

Know that you’re ever in my heart.

 

 

November 28, 2007

 

 

Luminous child of softest eyes

and gentle soul,

born from Ann’s hope,

and from his mother’s love,

how many hearts you filled with joy.

 

Curious spirit, wisp

of heaven, you

sifted the real and grew

to ponder truth,

began to laugh out loud with it.

 

Talent. Intensity. Pain.

Acting from knowledge of how

a black man’s world can go.

Your fire burned so fierce.

Your heart so sweet.

 

Luminous man of softest eyes

and gentle soul,

quicksilver brightness,

we miss you so.

I hope you’ve gone to sail the sky and fish.

 

 

November 2, 2008

 

 

 

 

Are you afraid to die, you asked.

No, but not now, I said.  I have too much

that I must do.

 

Almost a joke, those lines, yet so true then.

My love’s lost memory cruelty,

my company his mercy.

 

To die is verb, appropriately, infinitive.

it’s infinite. Death is a noun, the name for a

specific, limited.

 

Dying, not infinitive verb, is what we do

from instant when egg bursts and sperm

shoots up in glory

 

Until the last exhale.  There is no proper

noun to call the part I dread: that time from cells first

knowing to the going.

 

Odd–as I fail, it’s you, mama, that I want.

How strange, that I can feel your love now. How sad I didn’t

pay enough attention to you:

 

I am so much ashamed I talked with the woman

in your room while you were dying.  No wonder

you flicked off my hand.

 

Water Ballet

for Barbara

 

 

Surf thunders loud outside my window,

And geysers spurt where waves collide,

Violent beauty shaking the earth below.

My heart feels awe, my thoughts subside.

 

The spray blows backwards from wave’s crest

In arching plumes, white silken veils.

A water ballet, a dance that’s blessed

By unexpected grace amid life’s gales.

 

This poem’s for you, my dear, who dances

Like the spray, with grace so pure

And elegant, with beauty.  Your life enhances

Life; ethereal determination to endure

 

 

All necessary things for what is good,

I love your dance, brave heart, as on you go

For what you love.  Seeing your valor would

Inspire heroes’ souls, that much I know.

 

 

March 10, 1999

We met when I was 12

Over Oreos with milk–

Pains alloyed with

Kind soothing words

And a kiss.

Our worlds were chaos.

I knew she loved me

With all her heart.

 

There were strays in her world—

Not lost but needing something.

Our front door called to strays.

It radiated a secret message:

If you need love and acceptance,

Come here, and we will be friends.

Generous heart.

 

Can an adventurer love being in bed?

Russia? Poetry? East Boulder Lake?

Breakfast in bed?  Europe? Mysteries?

Costa Rica? Novels? Shasta?  History?

St. Petersburg?  Science?  Ecuador?

More poetry? Boston?  Historical fiction?

Point Reyes?  Novels?

I guess a bed and adventure are very compatible.

 

Can strong be gentle?  My Zena is strong—

Strong enough to anchor us with her rope,

Holds us through our storms:

Depression/despair/alcohol/drugs/

Dislike/cults/and anger.

The rope has pulled and twisted and

Even thrashed at times.

But it has held us.

Strong can have a gentle heart.

 

Eyes twinkle and smile so sweet.

Build a room just for me.

Princess clothes and special treats.

How special am I.

Crystal goblets, grandma’s silver,

What do you want for your birthday dinner?

Crepes for breakfast, snickerdoodles.

Her eyes really do twinkle.

 

James LaRoy

October 2, 2010

My Barbara has

A spirit both

As delicate as lace,

and strong as golden cord.

 

My Barbara man-

ufactures grace

As if it were a commonplace

that anyone can make.

 

My Barbara walks

Along the edge

As balanced as a sphere

Whose roll creates no fear.

 

God grant her life.

 

June 12, 2009