Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

Paul did not marry until he was forty. He was a crow,
feet nearly at his eyes, bald, a poem composed
of overweight lines. A barrister, a barrister. Always
with this sad feeling that he did not belong
with normal people.

Natalie was only a fragment of his life, but she was
enough, a declension of soft birds wired against flight.
And he married her.

Often Paul would tell me life seemed so mysterious to him
now than when he started, more a massunderstanding,
but enough heaven on earth for him to stay.
At least for awhile.

Yesterday, Paul called to tell me Natalie was dying,
that how we exist is only a fiber of something much larger
that spirals out of control to one enormous pinpoint
right before our eyes, some kind of pendulum rocking
a thousand miles away.

While we were talking on the phone, my face turned
to look out my rear kitchen window. The taller ash trees
across the greening spring field reminded me of how
much less I should say than I was actually saying
None of the words made sense to any of us:
Paul, Death, or me.

Natalie? She wasn’t listening.

very touching reminder of the fleeting nature of living and the relativity that carves our initials in the ash trees in our yards....perspective is the same as reality......they are indistinguishable from one another, and sometimes. ....well...words are simply inadequate..

saw,

The woman in the poem is now in hospice care. Head tumor. I have known Paul since we were five. The situation is crushing.

Thanks for your words.

68degrees

4th stanza is my favorite.

the end is a bit haunting.

peace to you and your friends.

Natalie died last Tuesday. The funeral was sad.

This Marriage Has Ended (update)

Paul did not marry until he was forty. He was a bald crow,
a poem composed of overweight lines: a barrister,
a barrister, a Sergeant of the Law with this sad feeling
of autumn that he did not belong with normal people.

Natalie was only a fragment of his life, a declension
of a soft bird wired against flight. And he married her.

Often Paul would tell me life seemed mysterious after
marrying her, but finally there was enough heaven on earth
for him to stay.

When Paul called to tell me Natalie was dying,
that how we exist is only a fiber of something
much larger, spiraling to one tiny pinpoint of light,
some kind of pendulum rocking a thousand miles away,
my face turned to look out my rear kitchen window.
The ash trees across the spring field reminded me
of how much less I should say since none of my words
made any sense to any of them: Paul, Natalie, or Death.

Natalie died last Thursday. She leaves no more ripples
on this surface of the world than a calm day.

Paul can no longer ask her how long they can be together;
how long can they hold their breath and wish for another day.