For My Grandmother

The passing of a close relative is a strange experience. I can't say that I'm grieving or mortally wounded by it, because I believe her to be in a better place, hopefully reunited with my grandfather, etc. But nonetheless, the experience is strange and in such a way that it's hard to describe. And if it's hard to describe, that means it'll come out in my poetry for a while, in small ways (such as my poem Lightning), or as the main topic such as in the following two poems. The first is a revised version of an older poem, while the second one is newer and probably harder to follow, but I'm trying. Comments welcome and appreciated.


The Archeologist
O remember that my life is wind – Job 2:7

I remember Stonehenge: the rocks piled together,
and the dawn casting shadows like a river of darkness.

My grandmother paused on the outside of the circle
perhaps imagining herself with a brush,
unearthing history with a gentle touch,

or seeing as the ancients the passing of days,
a cold solstice foretelling the long nights.

And I remember the ruins in Scotland
a village once covered when wind pushed the sand.

Then it lay below us, she and I, walking through time,
entering in homes that once sheltered families
like a child and his grandmother, talking around the fire,

or herself, young with her husband around the dinner table,
in a timeless scene with one son and three daughters.

I wish I could unveil more than the garden remains
of an old island home, lost in this tumultuous aging sea.

But this is how I discover: digging through memories,
sifting through them for the twinkle in my grandmother’s eyes.

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I read this poem at her graveside. It was okay and people liked it as far as I could tell, but, as expressed in the next poem, it felt inadequate. I'll keep revising it.

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Collage Of My Grandmother’s Memorial
Her four children leave the church singing
about the shivery river. An upbeat tune
but who can hide? who knows how soon
pain (do I feel it?) will be stinging?

Ready for the river,

It is the young ones who throw in the dirt
over the deep urn. A girl takes the rose
from the silent bouquet at her toes,
to this pit, and soils her skirt.

the shiver-y river
the river that goes down to the sea.

In clumps at the monument, we reminisce
when suddenly rises some clarinet’s cry:
a minor jazz melody, from off to the side
where my cousin’s soul doubts this:

gonna drown all my troubles
and leave only bubbles

Who am I to stand up and read
a poem, written and revised but one time?
a collection of memories lacking in rhyme,
inadequate to give voice to my plea:

to indicate what used to be me.

I sing as my mother sings; I follow her,
the congregation also. I can’t break away
from this celebration of life. Can’t stray
to that distant tree, her home now hollow:

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Doing a collage that is understandable is hard because, by nature, a collage has nothing to do with sequence, but the overall picture. That being said, I want it to be understandable. The italicized lines are meant to be the song that was being sung out of the church. Does it work? I'm trying to capture a bit of the strange feeling, but again, that's a feeling that's hard to describe. So help me out. Hope you enjoy these.