On The Death of Tony

On The Death Of Tony

My last memory of Tony

was a chance meeting

in a supermarket,

laughing as friends do.

His handshake wouldn’t let go.


Time, sometimes I hate you

because of your insistent march,

your incessant boom

marking where you are

and where you were.

I see where you are going

parallel to what is happening,

and where you’ve been too.

I see the distant helicopter

and hear its strange throbbing

history written by you.

An empty shell,

a fallen poppy,

burning orange against

a cold worn slab.

I see the church, the yew,

the eulogy,

organic prayer rising

from the earth

as trunk and branch and leaf.

I see a giver, and a thief

but sometimes I hate you

for all my reunions,

my handshakes that won’t let go

and sad imperfect endings.

Death it seems, is our missing season.

In Tony, did I see you Time,

laughing for a reason?


4 thoughts on “On The Death of Tony”

  1. time truly is a giver and a thief. it breaks our heart to pieces and then heals it, if not mends it.

    a very deep, beautiful and insightful poem. death is so often the reminder of our own fleeting hours.

  2. well, i had planned to hilite a few of the lines that caught my breath, but now realize i’d be hiliting most of your poem. time is a bugger to write about, but this poem has served it and this reader well. love the poppy and the helicopter.



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