Now, in another city ...

Now, in another city,

my friend’s funeral begins.

I remember to take my medication.

(This friend advised me to get certain dangerous symptoms checked, which led to the medication which keeps me safer. His own, different condition was not curable.)

*********

Afternoon, and in a city I used to know

the memorial is happening now

for another friend who died – this one 

suddenly, without my goodbye.

Now there is no-one left in my life

of that group of poets I met

in strange circumstances, once

upon a time, in a different reality.

Note: 

I met both these friends many years ago when they were in prison and I conducted poetry workshops there. They had long and good lives since. They did not know each other in life, being in different parts of the prison, released in different years, and afterwards living in different cities – but it happened that they died within a month of each other. They are the only two from that time whom I remained in contact with.

The garbage trucks wake me …

The garbage trucks wake me early.

Even my little cat is still asleep.

(She’s deafer than me.) I wake into 

the immediate knowledge of his death,

my old friend, my soul-brother – we 

could tell each other anything, every

thing, and also we didn’t need to –

unlike other deaths, when sleep gave

an escape from which I then had to 

realise all over again. 

                                    When he visited

that night, before I found out he’d died,

I was half asleep already, didn’t then

recognise it was him (well we hadn’t 

met in person for many years, though 

we texted and were always available 

to each other) only that it was a man, 

tallish, not one of my usual visitors, but 

someone I seemed to know very well … 

I fell asleep not knowing yet, but feeling 

safe in his regard, his calm affection. 

This is one of a series of daily poems I'm doing this year as a 'Book of Days' and posting to Instagram and facebook – this one already slightly edited since. It's also being shared with Poets and Storytellers United for Friday Writings #100: El Dia de Muertos.

In Australia we don't have a Day of the Dead. (Many Aussie schoolchildren have now started celebrating Halloween, on the same date as the Americans do – which is the wrong season of the year here, the beginning of summer instead of winter; also they don't seem to really get what it means apart from the fun of dressing up and eating lots of free sweets.) 

This newly written poem, though, obviously has some relationship to the topic.

Finally I remember …

Finally I remember 

to light a white candle, 

let it burn all the way down, 

and speak my favourite 

Prayer for the Dead.

I take the photo of his 

keen-eyed, smiling face 

out of my healing grid.

He is in a new realm now,

needing no earthly healing.

When I come to do my usual 

morning ritual, I add a request, 

to Bill, to be there in welcome: 

the friendly face of one 

he called ‘always generous.’

Oh bitter irony ...

 

Oh bitter irony! A dear friend died

two days ago. I just found out.

I was about to send him – today –

my newly published books in which 

poetry he wrote is featured. One tells 

of how how our lifelong friendship 

began. And now it’s ended. Except,

I suppose, love is never really over.