Tuesday, September 25, 2007

Death in the Wind

fizz fizz

IT is the Beauty and Ugly of TIME that ties me to the beginning and the end of me. How marvelously mysterious it is to be born to die. Isnt it fascinating like an Alkeseltser being dropped into the liquid of infinity...the bowl remains, the Alkeseltzer dissolves; not completely "gone" but far less "distinguishable" from the whole or the others in the pack.

Sometimes the "ugly" is the beauty for me. Will I miss people...maybe. I have always responded with "but I have a really good memory." Over time, I have skipped some funerals simply because I chose to remember them as they were---full of life. Sometimes it just created more questions than necessary. The bird in the bush is better left to rest. I remember the first time I "touched" a passed person...hmmm, interesting I thought, cold to the touch, like a cool refrigerator in a wind-leaked house. It was obvious that something that was there before is not anymore. How bizarre. It all looks the same; but something is missing...the "energy factor." That invisible something that the visible cannot deny; recognizes when its absent but cannot see it when present.

I am reminded of several poems about the wind that remind me of the spark of life:
Have you seen the wind?
Did it just pass by?
I can't see it,
In the cloudless sky.

But my hat blew away,
And I saw the trees sway,
So this must be
a windy day.
© by leslie tryon

Voices in the Wind
  Words from within,
only voices in the wind.
Echos in your ear, are
only voices in the wind.
Telling you my thoughts
only voices in the wind.
Poetry wrote for you,
only voices in the wind.
Memories fade away, like
voices in the wind.
Telling you how I feel,
only voices in the wind.
When I die, so will
the voices in the wind.

james foulk

The wind is without there and howls in the trees

THE wind is without there and howls in the trees,
And the rain-flurries drum on the glass:
Alone by the fireside with elbows on knees
I can number the hours as they pass.
Yet now, when to cheer me the crickets begin,
And my pipe is just happily lit,
Believe me, my friend, tho' the evening draws in,
That not all uncontested I sit.

Alone, did I say? O no, nowise alone
With the Past sitting warm on my knee,
To gossip of days that are over and gone,
But still charming to her and to me.
With much to be glad of and much to deplore,
Yet, as these days with those we compare,
Believe me, my friend, tho' the sorrows seem more
They are somehow more easy to bear.

And thou, faded Future, uncertain and frail,
As I cherish thy light in each draught,
His lamp is not more to the miner - their sail
Is not more to the crew on the raft.
For Hope can make feeble ones earnest and brave,
And, as forth thro' the years I look on,
Believe me, my friend, between this and the grave,
I see wonderful things to be done.

To do or to try; and, believe me, my friend,
If the call should come early for me,
I can leave these foundations uprooted, and tend
For some new city over the sea.
To do or to try; and if failure be mine,
And if Fortune go cross to my plan,
Believe me, my friend, tho' I mourn the design
I shall never lament for the man.

Robert Louis Stevenson

more poems of the wind.

Such is the mystery of life wrapped in the paper of death. The bow of eternity flows in the winds of eternity...