A Funeral

It seemed early for a funeral, but one could assume any number of satisfactory reasons.

For the evening's privileged invitees, polite assumptions would have to do.

The dim ballroom glowed with countless kind, yellow orbs. The guests, in formal dress, greeted one another warmly and eventually gravitated toward their seats. When the second to last space had been filled, the quartet in the corner abruptly ceased.

An elderly gentleman entered in silence; all eyes followed as he made his way to the center of the first row. One by one the guests took to the stage: old friends and nemeses, colleagues and cousins, his children and their children. One by one they shared whatever it was they had come to say. Grievances were aired and memories recollected. Some spoke of shared moments hitherto unmentioned. They discussed what their time together had meant to them; deliberated how he was to be remembered.

After much speculation and mostly generous words, the silent host took the stage. He was polite. He kept it short: said how grateful he was, that this was the fullest and final day of his life, that he knew they would all get on just fine without him. He studied the room for some time.

Then it was time for drinks and dancing. The chairs were stacked and music played. The longer the evening lasted the slower it grew. Everyone wanted one last photo. They all had their final piece to say. Looking across the room, family members wondered how much life might pass before they gathered again. And, then they thought, for whom?

At last the old man found himself next to the bar, holding a glass he couldn't bear to drink and that he knew he could not set down. He was tired. Even to stand was a terrible burden. He realized now that this moment had been put off for far too long. The storyteller in him always had to know what was going to happen next, but his eyes would not stay open any longer. This was the end, at least for him. His story.

He laid in a bed prepared on the far side of the room. The guests circled round; smiled, kissed, and waved goodbye. There were no words. He squeezed their hands and closed his eyes.

Another moment and the crowd had dispersed. It had been a lovely party. Some left teary-eyed, others had cried; but it had also become quite late. There were coats and bags to be gathered, drinks to shrug off, kids to be carted home and shuffled to bed. A few of the guests even had to be up for work early the next morning.

In My Own Image

I made God
in my own image;
Dressed in hand-
me-down convictions.
Between the shoulders
hung a mirror -
That held each thought,
each contradiction;
And I felt
I held the truth
in my hand.

I made God
in my own image -
But he shared my faults
and prejudices;
Validated my perspective,
all others, rejected -
And justified the condemnation
of those I did not wish
To understand.

I did this
without thought or mal-intention -
And now I'm left with the suspicion
it may be something
We all do.

Palimpsest

Having scraped, washed, and penned myself anew

of this moment I require nothing further -

And, in any case,

tomorrow will be coming soon.

Mirrorworld

A narrow breeze works its way through the leaves in the trees. Little white clouds coast and cause the afternoon brightness to dampen from time to time; their shadows drift silently over the ground as the world slowly spins. From the man-made shade of a second-story balcony I am lulled by the languid parade.

A modest lunch sits on the table, half-eaten. The other ten-odd tables are spaced-out haphazardly, their chairs unencumbered; the visible world from this spot and at this instant lay uninhabited. I, alone with the moment, begin to feel that it is my own.

The roof-line bows out from behind me in a wide-angled curve; the wall of glass that lines the patio reflects in panorama the world that lies before. I glance to my left and note the clarity of the image, an inverse courtyard running out alongside the building in a graceful arc. At first what appears as a mirror image begins to feel separate somehow. Even my own reflection bears a slight suspicion - I can't help but regard it as a person of uncanny resemblance rather than my own hollow echo. I close my eyes to dispel the perturbing sensation and a floating feeling seems to settle. I breathe out, then in, with a firm grip on the arms of my chair. I remain, for a moment, with my eyes closed. All is calm and silent, all seems well.

I open my eyes and find myself facing the other direction. My view is the same, but now I must look to the right to see my reflection in the window. It does not return my gaze. What now seems a former-self sits motionless beyond the glass, eyes open yet fixed, evidently lost in the depth of a thought. Although struck by the strangeness I remain curiously calm. This mirror-image of the world is wholly silent and still. I inhale and the air has no smell; the chair and table are solid but my sense of touch is numbed somehow. "Approach the railing and look to the east," I think to myself, and this strange twin of a body follows suit.  Apart from my own orientation the scene remains exactly as before: an empty courtyard, green with young trees and lined by buildings of uniformly speckled brick. The clouds continue to coast; their shadows drift. Again I turn, to catch my reflection staring...but he sits as before, unaware that a part of himself is missing, entirely unaware that he is being watched from a short distance.

Worn-leather Armchairs

Tonight, when the hour is late and the house quiet...
once you've been tucked in, each prayer gently tended to,
your god and I will sit in worn-leather armchairs and talk
about whatever is on our minds.

"Sometimes I still think you're right..." he often begins,
as he meets my gaze with weary eyes.
"...that somehow everything is going to be fine."
Then neither of us will speak for a time.

"You know..." in response to some unknown spark in his mind,
"...the age of the world escapes me.
My memory is just not what it used to be."

And when, after a time, eyes close and body slumps,
I will rise, almost an old man myself, to blanket both god and chair.


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I let you in
when I was young.
You listened, you were with me
when no one else was.

Now that I'm older
I wheel you around.
   Feed you by spoon.
      Listen to your fears
of the end.

But you won't die for some time yet
because,
omniscient or not,

We are one.