DEATH BELLS

(ARE BREAKING UP THAT OLD GANG OF MINE)

By

Michael Edwin Q.

They’ve all given up the ghost, that old gang of mine

I sit on this barstool, alone, raising a glass to their memory

I remember them clearly but wrongly

They are still young, handsome and beautiful in my mind

There is a place of honor for each of them in my heart

Like famous persons winning some unannounced race

Like pale shafts of light on a hillside in the desert

Appearing after sunset

I see them walking and hear them talking

As if yesterday were today

I am finally interested in what they say and do

Significant, poignant, and substantial

It was a sacred optimism, a gamble on humanity

Casting my lot with others of the same generation

Down the same paths and winding roads

With encouragement unlike any since

I wear my bereavement like fine jewelry

Handed down from father to son

From mother to daughter

A golden thread woven in the blood

These angels in dream only

Seen only in flights of fancy

In old men and women’s sleep

Vanishing with the morning

The North Star hovers over each grave

An eternal flame marking a fallen comrade

A golden locket worn around my neck

A string tied to my finger so I may never forget

I have missed you since your passing

I will miss you till I too am gathered into the mist

Where we will run again like young horses

Through newly raised fields of wheat

END