Thursday, November 9, 2017

His hand, warm from the work he loved


I’m not sure what time is, or if it exists. I don’t know that it passes. I’m told that it changes speeds. I’m told that we change speeds, even while sitting here like a lump, as my dear mother used to say, in front of a computer screen, or philosophizing for the silent amusement of these familiar four walls.


When did I become the ghost
that haunts these rooms?

When I could no longer
find my way out, I guess.

When my mind grew thorns
and knobs wouldn’t turn.

When I started to groan
and walk like my mother.

When she looked through me
and minutes turned to years.

When I looked through her
and saw the clock had stopped.

When our quiet talk became
dust on the furniture.

“Pictures, Tables, Walls”
Songs and Letters, January 31, 2008


And so consequently, I never really feel like time is running out. I am not an hourglass. I might have one more year, or thirty. I might have one more minute. I might already be gone.


Old though he was,
Death hadn’t the heart to take him,
The diligent, muttering scribe.
Already, the world had forgotten him,
His ideas shining like coins.

He worked alone,
With little or nothing to eat.
His table was littered with pages.

Death looked on:
Perhaps an exception in his case.
Why be forever bound?
Am I not free to choose?

While Death thought thus,
The old scribe continued his work.
He had long outlived his fear.
Let Death come, let it not come.
To him it was all the same.

There was a time, Death said,
When I would have laughed
At such an attitude. Or been offended.
But that time, that time, is gone.
Though I might crush him with a single blow,
This scribe isn’t the least bit concerned.

Death smiled to himself:
It seems I am losing my touch.

Still, he did not act. Could not.
He began to ponder his own eternal nature,
And the grim task he had been given to perform.
When was I born? Not ever, not ever.
When will I die? Never? How can this be?
Who made this decision for me?

And another thought: Do I not murder?

One by one, Death remembered:
The tiny children, the mothers, the wives.
Death remembered the strong young men
And the wise grandmothers he had buried:
So cruel, and by my own blood-soaked hands.

Yet poets liken me to winter and autumn:
See how Death paints the leaves and fields;
Thus he prepares us for the bright season ahead.

He wept.

The old scribe heard the sound.
He turned, then went to Death’s side:
Forgive me, my friend. I am old,
I did not know you were here.
He placed his hand,
Warm from the work he loved,
On Death’s weary shoulder.

“Death and the Scribe”
Songs and Letters, September 17, 2005


6 comments:

Stream Source said...

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William Michaelian said...

For each tilde, I return thanks without end.

Gary B. Fitzgerald said...

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Just waltzing my tilde.

William Michaelian said...

Ah! Your well-timed response is duly noted, good sir.

Gary B. Fitzgerald said...

Exquisite poetry, by the way.

As always, which is why, I suppose, I am a fan.

William Michaelian said...

Well, let’s face it: we’re both soft in the head. But I am pleased and proud to call you a friend. Thanks, Gary.