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Thursday 31 January 2013

Our Graven Names

from quarried deeps' darksome track
on one broad flag of granite black

our house in solemn tribute etched
with stately cross and holly sketched

dates of death and birth beside
our graven names woe betide

~

those four names our tale recounts
but one in bold casts a doubt

a tale of sunlight tinged with frost
a future bright ’til he was lost

the other three lay farther on
beloved wife, daughter, son

~

on february first’s snowy eve
two cars near as they homeward weave

four return from nana’s home
the children sleepy, still and prone

a drunkard departs his local tavern
he starts his car impaired and craven

~

until they meet headlights ablaze
unfocused eyes vainly gaze

just like a moth drawn to flame
the drunk steers into the oncoming lane

a shout! the crash! and noise like thunder
seeping oil and blood, flesh torn asunder

~

horror among the heap of cars
a father killed, a mother marred

here is strewn a mournful lot
a whimpering child, an unconscious tot

o what drink and drive has wrought
bodies aggrieved and futures caught

~

come keening sirens and faithful men
of fire, police and ambulance

what new frights of night's debauch
what grisly work awaits thy watch

load the gurneys and blankets spread
save the living and recover the dead

~

a little girl bawls in the frigid night
“teddy, teddy” her plaintive hight

the policeman thinks she wants her bear
and tries to move her from the wreckage there

but her brother's name she repeats
until the toddler’s found beneath the seats

~

to hospital, to morgue–off we hurry
only two of us alert to worry

to surgery, to x-ray, to intensive care
o doctors o nurses please mend us there

find our families, bring them in
and notify our next of kin

~

once four we were but now are three
years shall wither ere we all see

never again will we be sound and whole
our lives are rent, in three a hole

fore long we are moved and each is alone
tween hospital wards and family homes

~

but one of us heard the processional hymn–
the wee blonde girl whom her uncle carried in

from the church to the cemetery where he was laid
the grand to the credit in a long motorcade

the coffin was sunk into snow-covered earth
where a priest presided oe’r the burial dirge

~

thus each spring three visited the grave
in silent vigil we stood and prayed

tidied the plot and watered the plants
we were hushed as around we glanced

but we'd always questions driving back
trying to fathom this fourth we lacked

~

time increased and the stricken past faded
children were raised and a mother’s hair greyed

three grew inured that no fourth was there
and went about our lives nearly unaware

until one day we could accept it no more
and a grieving came that had not before

~

decades hence the mother’s health waned
old wounds transmuted into chronic pain

she fell one yuletide and her hip was replaced
a new knee followed amid rehab’s aches

one august morning her weakened heart faltered
sitting up in a chair, then she died, like her father

~

once four we were before the deathly change
then we were three in a grand trine chain

three lonely orbs in blackening space
the cicatricial three fallen from grace

then all-a-sudden just two remained
only two in the end who’d survived that day

~

and we two fend by divergent means
one averts and the other convenes

how sudden are her villainous reversals
down Life’s garden path transversals

no photos survive of us as a group
proving we were four ere our drop in the stoup

~

this is our tale's whimpering end
its teller's unaware what way next it may wend

let those who follow hear our cautionary tale
its moral is clear but offers us little avail

four graven names will be all that remain
bred in the bone to survive and sustain

~e

Monday 28 January 2013

Evening Bell


















to you:
        fair siren of my distant youth
        i bring thee disconcerting truth
whom these hands have wrapped in love’s embrace
        my gaze upon thy shining face
                 who left me but to end in bitter ruth

         Truth i promised and thus do i adhere
               if you shall exercise the will to hear
                    you have sailed to distant shores
                    striven for heaven and its rewards
                           what profits she the world but not herself, dear?

                    Hark: ‘to thine own self be true!’
                         thus wisely spake the bard a pearly jewel
                         tis time to shed youth’s showy zeal
                         to find thy voice and grasp what’s real
                              to break the vows you once approved

                         Come home; lo the evening bell doth ring!
                              take up thy bow and find thee worthy string
                                    apply thine art and mastery
                                    before it grows too late to free
                                               the voices of the young who make you sing!


~e