A starling composes a home, rumples under heavy, sapless holes
which are born a crude penetration of space
in a totem of a termite trunk
Senile
and wizened,
it stands a cragged monument to stillness yet asserting its verticality
before the anchor of death
A hard breeze chides his stance,
rapes wind through his fluted chest
The barrel cracks oleanders with thunder
and, being just some creaky thing of a seed, this arid cavity caves.
Thus abandons the bird
and settles the dust
Life shall draw no line and cast no shadow
Author notes
How many autumns must we live through before we cease to quake at the threshold of mortality?
How old were you when first you saw the cold, autumnal palette shift as a fatal diagnosis, and embraced the awe and trepidation of your own consummation?
"I pray that death does not come and catch me annihilated." -Ananda Coomaraswamy
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Wonderful poetry that is just such an absolute pleasure to read. I love the final line as the title, but with life in front of it, well done - such a truth to that.
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Death
is strictly
scientific
& artificial &
evil & legal)
we thank thee
god
almighty for dying
(forgive us,o life!the sin of Death
---------------- He said it better than I could bother to try. I've been here several times the past week or two, glad to see your work has continued to be something worth coming back to.
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This...seems a little stunted - I'm so used to your beautiful flow of words just slipping off the tongue.
To be perfectly honest the only part of the poem that engaged me was:
'settles the dust
Life shall draw no line and cast no shadow' - that's beautiful.
Too many 'and's all over the place, lots of 'the's.
Birds are swift, vivid and picturesque - please make this so - I know you can.
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There is always room within your words for contemplation, for introspection, for applications of various philosophies. Never do I find an extraneous word or phrasing that does not fit succinctly within the overall puzzle. The poem itself is a stream of pensive thoughts painted on a finely-stretched canvas, and your author's notes is a notable addendum that only adds to the gilt framing. I just turned 51 on the 24th, so it is a time of reflection for many reasons for me. Autumn has always been my favorite season, although many seem to view it as the stepping stone to their own mortality. I see it as a time for harvesting what we've sown all year, a gathering for the feast, of leaves rustling in the lane, forewarning us of Winter's impending arrival. Winter is my least favorite season, although I do enjoy the close-knit gathering that ensues, because of the cold. A fire raging on the hearth is a beautiful sight and such a comforting sensation. Stew simmering on the stove makes me happy to be alive, to be well-fed and relatively secure under a welcoming roof. This is a beautiful, well-hewn piece, Jen. As I always expect to find when I wander onto your sculpted pages, Scribe. 
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aaaaah...the ol' circle of life and death. You most certainly did a wonderful job of portraying those circles in this poem ! it's been a while since i've seen you, how have you been? Anyway, your poem is..........beyond my limited vocabulary, cause you are just crazy good!
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