fields of white crosses
whose war was good, whose was bad
doesn’t matter now
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Tag: memorial
1138
1131
our war dead–
surfing and barbecuing
forgetting us
440
a November day
flags and leaves in the grey wind
names etched in granite
413
a bent tricycle
vases of wilting flowers
sitting on the curb
408
for one afternoon
the small meadow of flowers
surrounds a new grave
394
my friend’s funeral
chances to schmooze and network
her paintings for sale
Elena Klein (1913-2004)
I did not attend her memorial,
my heart’s image is enough:
a gardener with her chinaberry tree,
a poet writing for great-grand-kids,
soul of a many gabled house
waiting for friends to come for tea.
I just didn’t want to go; too fat
for my decent slacks, too ornery
for any show of piety. But now
I’ll tell about one night at our
Not Yet Dead Poets’ Society.
A man had finished an epic rant
of homelessness and addiction.
Elena reaches across the table,
slowly moves her arms to catch
his hands in hers. Eyes shut,
she bows deeply, gripping him,
clutching him in mute,
divine apology.
