241.May 5

posted May 5, 2010, 6:48 AM by David Storlie   [ updated May 9, 2011, 1:36 PM ]
Grandma Olga died at 04:00 this morning. 
When my great Aunt Anna died, I wrote this poem, on the way back from Murdo, South Dakota in the late winter. I want to include the poem here, because I feel the same way at the death of Olga, losing all contact to the 2nd generation of my family. I don't think there are any left now that are 2 generations older than I am. I had lunch today at the Oaks with Sharon and Rachel.
(It was after I posted my poem that I got a call from my mother this evening, telling me that I will be a pall bearer at my Grandmother's funeral also.) 

The Land of Her

There is very little time 
to be young
when what's left
in the hourglass
is just dust

shooken up and
turned on end
though very few grains 
remain to be keen listening
and quick reading

or by choice
there is too much 
sifting beneath us.

I was told by my mother 
years ago 
in the land of her
that people were
living for something ethereal

than butter on bread or so
many dancing angels on 
pins and needles above
the flu

season when my head 
was equal to the huge
red cylinder 
of a far away

but my eyes were right on
a circus of
lions and monkeys and elephants 
and birds and what-nots 
swirling in parade behind

a blue dot 
which was me or
maybe the spell 
that had me
shaking and tucked in

the orange and green 
flowered sickbed and I
thought it meant death 
with the animals 
leading me, if only

so pretty 
time has
left for the taking 

as glass loses 
sand escapes
from six feet under

I was told
I was a pall bearer
I carried the bier 
and in it was my family
above all

I felt part of that 
family mechanically lower
into the ground 
without sound except 
falling earth from above

dumping down to fill 
the void
as skies turn to dust 
the little life that is left
sifts the air.