How I wish to be remembered.

As mostly nice,
     if occasionally ill-tempered.

A servant of divine
     and good and beautiful things.

An adequate dad
     and husband and brother and son.

Less of a disappointment than I might have been.

Reflective and wistful,
     but not so much as to have no value in the here-and-now

but not really interested in the here-and-now.

Angry at injustice and stupidity and shallowness

and occasionally full of 4-letter vim and vinegar,

and sometimes overheard by my children who don't understand the frustration but embrace it just the same, which reflects on my paucity of linguistic restraint but not my moral compass but what's the difference?

As a poet and pauper and happy with both;

as occasionally worth a read

by those who occasionally care what a fading man sounds like

duller and duller beneath settling layers

like wet leaves in fall that dry crispy and bright over an ecosystem of
     decomposition

[2013-04-17]

c0

No, I'm not dying.

c0

I've always admired a poet's ability to deftly and gently manage longer words; if done well, it's like the lapping of a small wave that crests incrementally for miles along the shore. The last line of this poem is a bit like that.

I wanted to add something uplifting at the end, but I think it would ruin it. If were to do that, it would read like this:

like wet leaves in fall that dry crispy and bright over an ecosystem of decomposition,

ebullient, black and fecund

with a million untold tales

I also like:

like fall wet leaves that dry crispy bright over an ecosystem of decomposition

The meter is nice, but too sing-songy, and "crispy bright" sounds like a brand of celery.

c0

Many years ago, at my Grandma and Grandpa Grandy's house in Fairview, PA, I read a National Geographic Magazine story on the life inside a compost heap. It was fascinating, all about the species that thrive there and the amazingly high temperatures that are achieved at the center of the heap. That article is behind the image at the end of this poem.

[2013-04-29]

c0