To Friends No Longer On This Plane
May my blessings all reach you if Spirit has home,
has an address (like I do, location). Let gift
of this poem be present that pleasures your soul.
Know I certainly cherished your kinship, felt rhyme,
cling to pretense (perhaps) a connection remains,
like a cloud in the distance (in drought) sprouts dim dream
of a future reunion of wheat growing tall
and the smell of bread baking, of famine with food.
Though friend’s memories whisper, flesh absence feels rude,
in a season change colder than winter or fall.
May the warmth of burned poems, of prose flow (upstream?)
to some mountainous stronghold (perchance on the plains?)
find connection somehow to Time’s Author sublime.
Let least dream of ‘God’s pleasure’ be purpose, not goal
of each second of life. May what’s TRUE not spell rift
as muse moves to its stage, qu*er eternal word’s ‘Om!’
Krakatoa Kritic #007
July 16th of 2021
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