dear grief – 15


Bring a man to his knees why don’t you,
until his savage is all timid,
and his temperament livid,
and he can’t fight you with his vulnerability,
or console you with bloodied fists.

One way or the other,
you’re going to smother,
with your blatant honesty,
and impartiality,
try as I may,
to perch, or even impale,
my grief, is better suited to flight.


dear grief – 13

What riches do I have,
that I can give,
that can expiate me,
or expiate him,
that aren’t from God to begin with.

What a fool I am,
assuming I can bribe my way,
out of grief,
out of guilt.

Or am I being held to ransom,
by my self,
of myself,
only to come to comprehension,
too late,
with too little left to give.


dear grief – 9

dear grief – 9

You don’t sound like a cello,
stringing it’s sorrow,
more like a ney,
I have no idea how to blow,
soothing to play,
for those who know,
but for me,
simply a cylindrical hollow.

Am I shallow?
Perhaps indifferent,
Melancholic mellow,
Or a blackened and charred,
Fume from bellow,
blacksmith of loss,
Hardened and rigid,
Smog filled swallow.


Music by Kudsi Erguner

dear grief – 8

There’s nothing quite as sobering as grief,
to uncover the guilt and sin,
the grime within,
there’s no teeth gritting,
no blood spitting,
that can remove the angst from your jaw,
or the taste from your mouth.

I’ve found in all this haunting,
a special fondness,
a familiarity,
we all smother with inattention.

To look at death,
and not worry about the ghosts,
takes a spiritual anchoring,
a maturing,
a purge,
of all you fear,
an embrace,
so the memory of the deceased,
remains near.


default pity

It’s the pity that drains me.

Somehow it overtakes the reality,
that you’re still breathing,
still functioning,
yet they dumb down their speech,
their interaction with you,
offering you a dispensation,
kindness by default,
talking to you,
like you’re not sophisticated enough,
not acute enough,
not alive enough,
not human enough.

The empathy they afford,
is loaded with white fragility,
with hyper sensitivity,
wrought with disclaimers,
anchored with fine print,
that they wallow in a bath of victim-hood,
because entitlement keeps their noses,
pointed up if only figuratively,
and they assume,
you’re in need,
of their constructed lulling,
their entitled guilt,
and sinister faces.

Thank you for your fake smile,
your agenda creased corner of your eyes,
your aged skin,
over half a century old,
over half a century dead,
and still not a human,
still barely a person.

being kind,
not out of pity,
but because it is your very essence.