In Search of Peace

I wrote this in response to 4.15.13, Boston.  It was in anguish that my feet carried me outside on a nice day.  And it was anguish that enticed me to pick up my pencil and write.  I am not eloquent, save in some small academic measure of speaking.  I do not write…whatever close approximation to poetry this is.  In fact, I’m pretty terrible at all forms of poetry.  But here it is, for your reading (dis?)pleasure, transcribed from my notebook, in the manner in which it came to me, hence the choppiness to the writing.  As always, thank you for reading.

In Search of Peace

I sit with the dead,

trying to find the peace

which seems so elusive.

 

Alone, save for the peaceful,

silent histories, and

nature’s own trumpeting

heralds of life.

 

Though sun light is

high, warmly filtering to

the cool ground

 

the boughs of these

trees, these stalwart

sentinels of the dead,

creak and groan with

the lamentation of lives that

have been lived.

 

An eerie reminder of our

own state of existence, those

fleeting moments of consciousness

which allow ourselves ultimate

expression in transience.

 

Often, I wonder here,

what amounts to the extent

of ourselves and deeds,

for when tragedy strikes,

shall not we find the true context

with those around us?

 

The wind catches the dried

stalks of last year’s grass,

withered,

which whispers softly in the

breeze.

 

Wind, or memory?

 

The peace of a quiet bone

yard or, perhaps,

the ever-present peace of

the completion of life.

 

It is peaceful here,

with these dead.

So much so that I feel

Almost an imposition.

 

Not an accepted or welcome

feature of the turning of time.

 

Peace, ever-fleeting, feels to

be their domain, while we

flesh and motion, know

naught but turmoil and

the chaotic, sporadic nature

of humanity.

 

A duo of crows,

iridescent feathered messengers,

take flight, the mocking

calls of their throaty

cackle denying me

that acceptance of

the peace, so elusive and

hard won.

 

A distant church bell echoes,

a sibilant chorus to the

hungry taps of an ever-eager

woodpecker, feasting

his fill.

 

Expediency, it seems is

needed in my contemplation.

 

These dead, peaceful, people

want me to tarry not

at all.  While

of gentle demeanor, I am

an ultimate interruption.

 

And so I take my leave

of peace, and enter the

chaos of transition and change

once more.

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~ by thelettuceman on April 17, 2013.

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