Archive for March, 2012

In My Hand

Posted: 7 March 2012 in Uncategorized

I want to die with a gun in my hand.

And I will wonder how it ever came to be.

A relic from an era when we deceived ourselves;

Having faith in its ability to protect

While it dealt only death.

And I will smile knowing that I hold a museum piece

With the inscription “the last handgun ever made.”

I want to die with a gun in my hand.

I want to die with a hoe in my hand.

A sharp one honed by Robert himself.

Its fine-edged steel able to slice

Chickweed and wild mustard and even that damn dock.

I will consider bent back and recall tortured joints

From wielding it in the loam to which I return.

My toil occasioned by the rupture: “by the sweat of my brow…”

I want to die with a hoe in my hand.

I want to die with a picture in my hand.

A mixture of sadness and tired joy

As I look at the last child to ever die

Of malaria or pneumonia or war.

Remembering what Master Browne said

About looking into a child’s face and seeing the human race.

Not having to say “How Long” any more.

I want to die with a picture in my hand.

I want to die with a shifter in my hand,

Having just manipulated it to move the chain smoothly down

After a muscle searing climb over Monitor, Tioga or up Hood.

And realizing it is not just the doing but

The seeing from a place where my legs can take me;

Thankful that I had the chance to ascend just… this… way.

I want to die with a shifter in my hand.

I want to die with Luke in my hand.

The story of a seemingly solitary man but one

Who drank from the richness of the bonds made with ordinary folk,

Scoundrels and scarlet letter types.

Who stood before–and looked right through–the artifice of power

Terrorizing it with his naked-making gaze (revealing).

Yielding to its death-dealing only long enough to make it think it had won.

I want to die with Luke in my hand.

I want to die with a hand in my hand.

The hand that stuck it out

Through all the narcissistic bullshit.

Early on abandoning the petty so we could

Struggle together through the living out of what mattered.

The only one whose tears could obliterate me (thankfully they were rare)

And who was steady, steady, steady–making steady.

I want to die with a hand in my hand.