Beginnings
A good place to start.
Find that moment of courage
And, simply, jump in,
Feet first, if need be.
What other option is there?
Should you read the current,
So much the better.
Swim ahead of the rest,
But that’s not your concern.
Pace yourself accordingly.
Realize you have far to go,
And breathe deeply, constantly,
Conserving the energy you need
To keep steady, above water.
Don’t worry what’s below;
It should be of no consequence.
Let each stroke bring comfort.
Select a saint to worship.
Sing a song if you choose.
Hymns provide solace.
Now you’ve found peace,
Blessed by the sweet souls,
Welcoming you ashore.
Monkey Wind
When I first thought
I made peace with it,
I stepped back to admire
What it was I’d done,
But saw the shadow
Disappear in a haze,
And suddenly felt forlorn
By the absence of its presence.
There was no denying
The emptiness around me,
Even though a moment ago
I’d found contented space.
Yet, just as soon, it vanished.
I wondered if nature had stock
In the business that occurred.
How some intangible force
Could take control of my life,
Assuming a foreign identity,
Outwrench the monkey wind—
Nothing personal whatsoever.
I decided then to have it out,
Once and for all,
With the idiot cosmos,
Yet fell fast asleep,
Before a punch was thrown.
Funeral
Sorry I won’t be attending,
Paying my last respects.
Nothing against you, personally.
Admired you for the most part,
While you were still alive.
Forgive me; I hate funerals.
Why disturb the dead,
To celebrate the past.
Isn’t it simply enough
We live as long as we do.
And for those dying young,
Allow them their youth,
Escaping infirmity at its worst—
Shameless curse of old age.
When I’m gone,
I don’t expect a ceremony.
No mere mention of me
Would be all well and good.
Let the buzzards have a picnic—
The more, the merrier.
As for any blessed afterlife,
Who knows what, where, and how.
About the Author
Bart Edelman’s poetry collections include Crossing the Hackensack, Under Damaris’ Dress, The Alphabetof Love, The Gentle Man, The Last Mojito, The Geographer’s Wife, Whistling to Trick the Wind, and This Body Is Never at Rest: New and Selected Poems 1993 – 2023. He has taught at Glendale College, where he edited Eclipse, a literary journal, and, most recently, in the MFA program at Antioch University, Los Angeles. His work has been anthologized in textbooks published by City Lights Books, Etruscan Press, Harcourt Brace, Longman, McGraw-Hill, Prentice Hall, the University of Iowa Press, Wadsworth, and others. He lives in Pasadena, California.
