by P. C. Scheponik
What of Forever
I will not leave my life unwritten,
though I will go into that night untyped.
My words lying on pages the color of moon
reflecting the light of sun my eyes no longer see.
My words, drying on these lines, growing brown
and brittle around the edges, like the crisp bodies
of fallen leaves—
those left along the edges of walks and roads
and the root-gnarled bases of trees.
Who will love the piles poised on the promise
of being read, of reaching out and speaking
after I am long dead?
Such a Lazarus tease that plays in my head…
that plays in my head.
I have sanctified the pen.
I have made a paper bed for my heart to
lie down upon, for my mind to pretend
that my soul might live forever.
The morning wind combs willow’s hair,
strand by weeping strand.
Trembling silver edges, teeth made of air
slide softly through the green-leaf mane
with a mother’s love or a lover’s care.
All is peace and gentleness.
Sun’s golden hands softly caress
the edges of glowing clouds.
Heaven’s blue cheek is brightly rouged
with dawn’s blush, and drowsing moon,
a bit confused, seems in a rush to clothe
her pale nakedness with an indigo robe of sky.
While robin sings a matin song and starlings fly
in black star throngs to celebrate the break of day.
My heart rises with each note, and my soul longs
to find its way deep into the beauty this world shows,
into the perfect truth the body knows when it’s
seduced by morning.
There Comes a Point
There comes a point when the best thing
we can do for our children is die.
Before the mindlessness and madness
pry self from body, turn consciousness to dust,
proving there is a purgatory and therefore must
be a hell, where the body becomes a fragile shell
crushing hopes and breaking hearts—
a horror show of creeping parts that break and
bleed and ooze.
But most of all to show us how little we are and
how much we have to lose.
Such great capacity to wound and leave nothing
behind but the scar to serve as a reminder we are
never far from suffering.
How an hour becomes an eternity in time,
and the only hope for escape we can find
is through death’s merciful door.
P.C. Scheponik is a lifelong poet who lives by the sea with his wife, Shirley, the love of his life, and his shizon, Bella. He has four collections of poetry and has been published in numerous journals.