What do you say to the grieving?

Any condolences
however well meaning

are insufficient

fall like platitudes

ineffective

however true

listening and companionship

offer solace

it is in the sharing

and speaking of grief

that allows catharsis

and eventually

perhaps

healing

Life on life's terms

I don't understand
the fear of death

I don't wish it

or welcome it

I relish each day's

pleasures

I'm grateful

for each day's

challenges

I accept

my responsibilities

with an open

and eager heart

most days

I am filled

with love

but

when it's time to go

whether tomorrow

or in 50 years

I will be ready to depart

Middle Age Thoughts

I've come to the point
where death

is not likely

but possible

stroke, heart attack,

freak occurrence

the idea more

prevalent

with half my life

behind

not suicidal ideation

or mortality obsession

but standard

middle age reality

but the thought

from time to time

engenders

this desire

to provide assurance

If I go early

know

I gave it everything I got

the kind of

unnecessary proclamation

I feel compelled

more often to make

My First Friend

Has passed
into the clearing
at the end of the path

by his own hand

We grew apart

some years ago

not through contention

only time and distance

I'm not naive enough

to believe

I could have effected

the outcome

But I wish

I wish I could have told him

he will live forever

in my secret heart

Watching Pee-wee's Big Adventure 

eating Pop-Ice

riding bikes and playing soccer

the easy, unfraught days of youth

Eternal

The Jumping Off Place

What you learn
from a near

death experience

is that

it was never

that far away

before it

Gilbert

Walking through
the remanence of a life

the dust

the mold

the memories

what reveals itself

is a story

complicated, circuitous

a myriad of aborted interests

gifts bought but not given

posturing, projects

a world in and of itself

cubbies and corners filled

but empty

the cost of cruelty

a history of regret.

But in the clutter

the mess

the dirt

lies 

an opportunity

for those that remain

to move beyond it.

Ms. Kitty

We say goodbye

to our stalwart cat

who, for two decades,

provided comfort

as well as consternation

solace as well as stress

but above all love, loyalty

unshakeable, unflinching

company and care

when it was needed most

she passed as she lived

with dignity and strength

and now resides in the clearing

at the end of the path

to frolic, fight, and feed

forever.

I tell my sorrow to the stones

There is a stone
with epitaph:
her spirit smiles
from that far shore
and softly whispers
"weep no more"

and beyond death

this message seeks

one hundred years

and more it leaps

to my heart

this day it strikes

to remember well

a once bright light

Esline Age 1852-1912

An Insightful Observation

At some point during therapy
I brought up my grandfather

in a casual way, providing context

and I just started weeping

uncontrollably

I was totally caught off guard

told Maureen, through my sobs

"I don't know why this is happening,

it was a long time ago."

and she said

"I think we hit some scar tissue there."

If It Is Not True Do Not Say It

Listening to my cousins pay tribute to our departed grandma I was struck by the difference in our experiences. Demarcated partially, I think, by gender as I was her sole grandson. They extoled her progressivism, her encouragement of their education and literacy, her caring, reliable nature. These were things that I did not see. To me she was mostly cold and distant. I remember her yelling at me for not putting the toilet seat down when I was 8. Screaming at my child-self that I'd make a little old lady go butt first into the toilet bowl. I remember countless times when she would be holding court with my  cousins about gender equality and then order me to cut the grass or move some boxes or rake leaves, sending me off to some physical labor or another. I would ask her questions about my grandpa who I dearly loved who had passed and she would equivocate, deflect, not answer. As a child I feared her and she did nothing to dispel that fear. As an adolescent and adult I was truculent, rebellious, reserved but what other armor did I have? I did not feel love, I felt the weight of obligation.

They say not to speak ill of the dead but they also say speak the truth.

Perhaps I give to much credence to my wounded inner child for there are two sides to every coin, a broader context. My grandpa was an alcoholic and although he eventually got sober, that takes its toll not only on the addict but every member of the family. Strike one. She was my only surviving grandparent and in my mind and heart I wanted her to be something no human could be, some perfect platonic ideal of grandparenthood, so there was that impossible expectation. Strike two. And I was her only grandson, she struggled to relate to me, more comfortable with her granddaughters, more assured. Strike three.

But there was love although it may not have been expressed frequently or healthily. Once when we were visiting my aunt and uncle we went on a hike to a park where golden eagles nested, a species I was obsessed with at the time because of Rescuers Down Under. We hiked up to a cliff and I went to the edge to look out and my grandma yelled "Get back! Get back from the edge!" Why hike up all this way if not to have the thrill of the view, I thought. And I was angry. This was the one thing on our trip I wanted to do and she was trying to take some of the adventure away. After she snapped off a couple more orders I reluctantly came back. She could tell I was upset and said "you have to understand this kind of thing makes grandmothers nervous, we worry, I couldn't stand it if something happened to you. You can do whatever you want when I'm not there but when I'm here you need to do what I say." I could tell she was feeling incredible anxiety, she was shaken, she probably had a fear of heights that I didn't know about, but her worry for my well being was genuine. It is one of the only identifiable moments of concern or care that I can remember from her from my childhood.

Into my teenage years my alcoholism activated with significant zeal. I stole booze from her house a couple times. I had a party at her cabin, which the whole family used, and one of my idiot college friends threw up in the bathroom and we didn't fully clean it up before we left. She went up with one of my cousins later and found this mess invested with maggots. My cousin told me she was down on her knees scrubbing it up and it was heartbreaking. My point is I'm no saint, I'm culpable too, and I would imagine my alcoholism aside from the obvious problems was also particularly triggering for her because of my grandpa.

After I got sober I began to write poetry which she had a passion for. At a family get together she expressed interest in it and as a way to make what amends I could I made her a book of my poems for her birthday, shared with her this fragile and precious thing that I was cultivating. Somewhat to my surprise she loved it and was incredibly gracious. We started exchanging letters and poems and in that connection I had the grandma I always wanted. She was encouraging and guiding, she was kind and playful, and she showed, perhaps for the first time, genuine interest. We were engaged with each other on a personal level. It was wonderful. Around the time of the 2016 election she began to harass me and my cousin about making political videos because the specter of Trump(not incorrectly) terrified her. Hectoring emails, letters, conversations. That interaction was a return to behaviors I knew too well- exacting, cold demands. Our correspondence ended and shortly there after she began her gradual decent into dementia.

My grandma didn't make cookies, she wasn't maternal, at least to me, but she did teach me about poetry and support my pursuit of it. If that's all she was capable of giving me I can accept that, be grateful for it even. But I'm not going to forget her cruelty or pretend like it wasn't there.

That is my truth skewed, I know, by my own perspective. But shouldn't there be an accounting for the dead? Aren't all lives fallible? Prone to mistakes as well as triumphs, don't they equally shape the legacy and the people who are left behind? Didn't all of our families fuck us up to greater or lessor degrees and if so how can we hope to transcend that pain, that damage, if we aren't forced to reckon with it?

A Lesson

Sooner or later
(and you'll never know which)
you are going to die
so make the most of it.

Don't sweat the small stuff.

Serious Business

My grandmother passed last Saturday, this is a poem she wrote about five years ago.

My sweet seven-year old granddaughter
confided to me that

she is afraid of dying.

She's definitely suspicious of Heaven

being a good alternative to Earth.

Will we have a body? We can't

take our real one with us.

Or will the big box we're in go too?

Do we take clothes to wear with us?

And what about the people in urns?

I counseled her that we will have a body,

but it will be a spiritual body.

We will know each other, and added that

I was looking forward to seeing

my mom and dad, and her Grampa Irv,

there already, as well as my brother

and many of my dearest friends.

We will have a joyous reunion.

I assured her that, as a young person,

she would not be going there

for a long, long, long time.

The she has important work

to do on the Earth first. She had

no what-do-you-eat-in-Heaven

questions; ones so worrisome

to my own kids.

Things About Early I Want To Remember

He was a co-worker but also a friend.
He had a wicked scar on his arm from when he was working for CPS in the 70's and got knifed.
He bowled every Friday.

He gave a ride to one of his mother's friends who lives in a retirement home every other Thursday for a social event.

On the weekends he volunteered at PAWS.

He didn't smoke, didn't drink, but loved to gamble. He would go to the casino a couple times a month.

Before insurance he worked as a paralegal, before that he was a hair dresser, before that he taught court reporting and was a court reporter. I think he was most proud of his teaching. He was a meticulous worker.

He was incredibly patient and giving with his time, energy, and money with his sister who has dementia even though it sounded like it was a very difficult situation.

He had a long time partner who was younger and worked a lot, when I asked him if they'd ever get married he seemed ambivalent.

Last year he got two cats and he complained about their pissing and scratching everything but he really loved having pets of his own.

He had some flooding issues and was getting some renovations done and talked about his house quite a bit, it was a hassle but I think he enjoyed having a big project.

He was passed retirement age and whenever I asked him about it he would always say next Fall, next year, next Spring. I think he liked the social aspect of work the most and didn't want to give that up.

At our job we got free lunch and he always agonized about what to pick each day, then he'd take two bites of whatever it was and then try to give it to someone else in the office.

He loved chicken and rice.

After our work holiday parties he would take the leftovers and give them to homeless people camped out on Lower Wacker.

We talked every day in the office and a fair amount this past year when we were working from home on the phone. The minimum duration for these conversations was usually 45 minutes.

He talked and I mostly listened and unless I had work piling up that was alright with me.

He had a lot of stories and a lot of opinions and led an eclectic life.

We talked a fair amount of shit about work.

He taught me everything I know about my job and I learned a lot from him professionally and otherwise.

Last Christmas he wanted to get me something I could use so he got me Juul pods, he was nervous about it because he didn't smoke or vape or know anything about that stuff, it was four packs which is pretty expensive, they were menthols which isn't my flavor but I was touched and never mentioned that and used them anyway.

He came with some of my co-workers to one of my improv shows and, I think, had a really good time. He always encouraged me wholeheartedly with my creative endeavours and seemed to be really tickled and excited by the fact I was a performer.

He went to a fair amount of musicals, plays, bailes, and concerts and mostly seemed to enjoy them unless he fell asleep which he would always admit to if he did.

At our job after you've worked there for ten years you get a three month paid sabbatical.

He hit the mark last year and was planning this big trip to Italy, where he'd never been but always wanted to go and was really excited about it.

Then COVID hit right after he started his sabbatical and he couldn't go and he got COVID during that time too so it turned out to be a pretty big bust and he seemed really happy to return to work.

He got COVID again mid-December.

Was hospitalized.

Lost the ability to communicate.

And passed away this weekend.

And that's life and I can accept that.

I don't think anyone is going to get out of this without losing someone.

That's a heartbreak, a grief, we're all going to have to carry.

And I'm not one to debate the unfairness of it all.

He had a good life, 70 years plus, he saw a lot, did a lot, made a profound impact.

But what I can't accept.

What seems to me, cosmically unfair.

Is that he never got to see Italy.

He never got his trip that he planned for, that he saved for, that he dreamed about for years.

For whatever reason in this tragic situation that strikes me as the most heartbreaking.

Because I know he would have loved it.

He would have been so happy.

His name was Early and I will remember him.

Ghost Town

Bare boards
above
bald bones,
old stones
and
gravel roads,
sheared herds
duet
singing birds
and
the ghost
moans
all alone.

Ghost Town

After yesterday we took it pretty easy today, went to the Grafton ghost town which is a half hour or so outside the park. Pretty picturesque and eerie. We were the only visitors for most of the morning so that certainly enhanced the experience. In the afternoon we went on one of the more sedate hikes in the park, the paved trail that leads up to the Narrows.

Clinton St.

What I remember most

about my grandparents house

is the slate gray stone

from which it was constructed.

Old and regal.

Almost Gothic

in it's jagged age

at least that's how it appeared

to my child's eyes

timeworn and

mysterious.

But despite it's impassive aesthetic

it was a place of comfort.

For a time.

My sister, cousins, and I

would spend hours

producing puppet shows

from the balcony

with stuffed animals

dangling from ribbon.

In the basement
a disused pool table

the remenant
of a fabled
marital argument.

A pear tree

in the back yard

a wedding gift

to my parents

which they planted there,
where they had their reception.

The garage which

as we grew

we stealthily climbed atop.

Those and a hundred memories

too faded by time, 

too dream like

to exhume.

But last

my grandfather's tan recliner

large, soft, and safe.

In it, the mythic presence

of my grandfather

Irv

who towers 

over my childhood,

his kindness in life

and the void he left

in death.

Everything changed after that.

Risk and Reward

It pays to remember
that even a moment
of inattention
can be disastrous

and those things
that bring us joy
and freedom
may have a price.

There is relish
and satisfaction
in exhilaration
and thrill

but harm, handicap
even death
can be the unwitting
consequence.

Not to say
lives should be
suffocated
by caution

but awarness
of the cost
and resolute focus
are vital
to avoid accident
and ignorance
-buy the ticket take the ride-
and although there may be tragedy
there will be no blame or accusation of responsibility.

A Ghost Story

I think there is a ghost in my apartment.

She lives
in hinges,
scuffed parquet
and the absence
of paint
on the window frames

I don't think she's malevolent
just exhausted
as I imagine all ghosts
to be
so I put on shows
I think she'd like
baking ones mostly
mindless and quiet
to help aid
in eternity

When I hear
the creak or crack
of something shifting
the brush and rustle
of nameless drifting
I leave a glass of water
clear and cool
on the table
for though I know little
of the hereafter
I do know
the dead
are thirsty.

Ode To Luke G.

It's been almost 15 years
since your fatal date
with Spring Creek Rd.
and you've never strayed
too far from my mind.

I didn't attend your funeral
and sometimes I regret that choice
instead I sang the first song
I ever wrote
at a collegiate open mic
thinking that a fairer tribute
than public grief
for you inspired me
more than you ever knew.

In our high school
creative writing class
you wrote a poem
about my notebook cover
at the time
a collage of xeroxed
LIFE magazine photos
and snap shots
from a family trip to AZ
and it was good
the best poem
to come out of that class
but more important,
more shocking,
it was cool.

More than Dickinson, Kerouac, or O'Hara
you made poetry cool.
You gave me permission to write,
devoid of fear or judgement.
Yes, I remember you as a great teammate-
your green and yellow cleats,
we called you Green Lightening.
Yes, you were a unique friend, funny and loyal
but also honest even biting.
But you, more than anyone, gave me poetry.

You live in every poem I write.
This one, perhaps, more than others.

On Grief

We all grieve in our own way. Whether we commiserate or sit silently, whether we weep or anger, whether we recount memories or distract with humor. We all have our own process we must deal with in order to come to terms with loss. What we cannot do is bottle it up and ignore it. We must engage with our grief, we must feel, we must face it, the pain is ours to be experienced and grappled with and incorporated into ourselves as we move on. It is not some foreign thing to be scorned, as difficult as that can be.

Last week a friend passed away. He was 25. It is a tragedy and it is painful. He was funny and joyful, always grinning with an easy loud near-constant laugh. The fact that he is gone is a shock and as the days go by it still seems unreal, more like a dream or ill conceived prank rather than reality. Like any moment there'll be news there's been some mistake. It will take time.

As I mourn I try to crystallize my memories of James. Our conversations, the time we sat together during shows, the times I saw him perform, our hugs. And more importantly than that I keep in my heart and mind his unbridled joy not only of comedy but of life, his open and relentlessly positive disposition. I will carry that with me forever, as a remembrance and as a guide.

When it comes to death, that frightening and inevitable counterpoint to life, compassion should be our watchword and gratitude our touchstone. The burden of life can be heavy but in sharing it becomes lighter. We all struggle. In reaching out and connecting, in seeking understanding and empathy that struggle is weathered. Each day is precious, each friendship, relationship, family member, success, pleasure, triumph are to be relished and remembered. There is tragedy and cruelty and sometimes it strikes close to home. But there is also love, joy, and companionship. Seek it out and savor it.

The world is capricious. Sometimes life can be fleeting. This is how we go on. One step at a time. One day at a time. Fortifying ourselves with the warmth of friends and family we trudge the road of happy destiny. For today, today we are here.