Holes

a Poem of Remembrance

First, forgive me for not responding to your poems and thoughts as I would have liked to, for about the last month. Life has held other things. We buried my Dad-in-Law last Friday. He had lived with us for seven years. And now I am at my daughter’s, holding my newborn granddaughter.

I have some follow up thoughts after the poem, but didn’t want to prejudice your reading. I presented this at Charlie’s funeral.

Holes

There’s a Charlie shaped hole
in the the world today,
a void as big as the moon.

There is one less friend in this room today
One less friend to hold.

There a palpable silence
in our house today,
a gap in space and time:

Gone the repetition and the deaf-eared shouts,
Gone the constant query ‘bout the Russians
and our health.

There’s a crack
in the funny-bone of the world today
One less joke to tell…
and future generations may never know
of the man, who ran over himself --

He-couldn't-find-anyone-
to-the-run-across-the-street-for-him;
So-he-ran-over-himself.

There's a little less courage
in the world today,
one less mission to fly
one less man to say to the nation
"You may have my life
in exchange for your freedom and peace.”

There’s a little less charm
in the world today
a little less dance to the step
a little less bow the waist
a little less curve in our face.
a little less spark in our eyes.

There’s an ache in the heart of a bride today,
as she fingers the frame and says:
“This is my sweetheart.”

Seventy years of adventure, hilarity, and risk
Seventy years of conflict, forbearance, and bliss
Seventy years of shared sojourn
and the passion of that ever longing voice:
“Where’s Jean, Where's Jean, Where’s Jean?”

There’s a million new holes in the world today
like a planet riddled with shot
each void shaped like a Charlie, or a Daniel,
a Mary Lou, or a David.
Each, leaving in their wake
a gaping wound.

There’s a little more glory
in the world today
That God rich in mercy, fearsome in grace
Powerful in restoration, with plans for tomorrow
Knows what he is doing

He knows that we are sinful
He knows that we are dust.
He knows how to find his children
He knows the holes in us.








___

* The listed names: Daniel, Mary Lou, and David belong to other family members who have passed in the last years. I wanted to acknowledge the loss to others in our assembly.

——

So, I confess, I am not really in love with this poem. It strikes me as a little abstract, maybe even spiritually vague. I wrote it for the ears of others and those assembled.

What is peculiar to me…This poem was roundly praised by friends and family. I told my sister-in-law that I was not that thrilled with it. She in turn replied, “So much of your poetry is hard to understand… Heady. But this is something everyone could understand… I bet that is why you don’t like it!”

And she was right. I attempted to write an accessible poem, my hearers found it so, and now I am distressed that they like it. What’s with that!

So I just want to know, have you ever had the same experience, in which people love something you have created, but you don’t feel it?