The Dry Dispatches
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From the anthology, Complaining to the Clock, a work in progress. This is another poem about death. I am not morbid, but death is very much a part of life, and poets have written about it for millennia.
The Dry Dispatches
To the sullen cemetery in the sun we trudge,
No better place indeed to find memory’s heartbeat,
and a plate of forgiveness inside its eating green gardens,
as human bones hypnotize the dry dispatches.
No, I cannot sit here and continue to listen to you.
You try my patience.
My wish is for me to find death fast,
In my sleep of life now, no sooner,
For I have found distinct closure for my life;
Indeed I have made my final peace with God,
And as I now sit facing the sunset of my days,
I am reminded of so many faces from old times,
Old moments with humans foolish and brazen, as most are,
In their fleshing hearts and in their breeched dramas.
Shh, I waited inside the back door for your lusty footsteps,
Waiting for your anxious moving shadow as you arrived barefooted,
And when I opened the peering door, you said nothing,
Just turned around to be unfastened and unzipped,
as most sane lovers do, and then I brought you to the floor.
And silently danced with you in the naked darkness of temerity.
Oh humans, foolish and brazen as you are!
I cannot seek death because I am dead now myself,
Just a sorry ghost roaming with the myrtles in the distance,
Long ago, before the now of today and the road of regret.
Copyright © Stark Hunter | Year Posted 2019
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