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Posts Tagged ‘poems about death’

I don’t like finding the dead bodies of insects

anywhere ‘round my house.

Don’t get me wrong, I smash and swat and kill

the little buggers when they trespass on my space.

They are disgusting after all, and especially to me;

when I consider how alien they seem,

but still share my ancestry.

 

How I hate thinking that they still foment

within their genetic recipe

the blueprints for my symmetry.

 

No, my distaste for finding the leftover husks

of dried out insects comes from the deep

realization that I share that fate with them.

 

That their grotesque beauty should be

so fragile in the end, and so easily extinguished,

left without ceremony, to be collected in a dustpan.

 

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2016. All rights reserved.

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I don’t know

what you’ve been told,

about what happened

long, long ago;

but it’s happening still

and forever will.

So even as

you sit around

bored or absorbed

by retold stories

of the horde you were born to,

learning the sayings and prayers

making your exit and entrance

being just merely a player,

you should come to learn,

through peace

and through violence

there’s a greater tale told

of black hole horizons,

and dreams from hadrons

collapsing in silence …

… particles blinking

in and out of existence

ignoring the gravitational resistance

…………..that allows you and me

to walk around on this earth

and for whatever it’s worth

whether you accept it or not

this story has got

……………………….no point.

For in a curious twist

the multiiverse missed,

what no good writer ignores.

Who is this story for?

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 worse than learning

what it is

is realizing it’s the stuff

that’s getting in the way

of actually being

in the world

completely,

and worst of all

is knowing

that it’s mostly

empty space

repelling through

its charges

our merging

into everything.

 

 Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2012. All rights reserved.

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for Paolo Ernesto

.

the rules for all of this

come from distant worlds

we are satellites of satellites

bound to every detail of the past

.

we trod around our

flooded rock imagining

we could be stars

but we know now

that we are very far

.

we are made from pieces

that fall apart to blend again

with earth and rain

and other broken things

.

like water at different degrees

we are held in a temporary state

awakened for a moment

and given a name and birthdate

.

if we are lucky,

our days cannot measured

only by our presence

or the illusion of our reflections

.

instead we learn to love and live

above the center of the dance

where the music is played

in plasma waves and memories

of romance and laughter; until

yesterday is more engaged

for moments …

.

before the bad news breaks

to remind us of our origins,

.

               that the lotus is retreating

               that the universe ends up freezing

               that there is no way to kiss your gentle face again.

.

* “passing through here” or “happening here”

.

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2011. All rights reserved.

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What the doctor says to me

               in his soliloquy …

and in terms that are expressed

               really best by his eyes

and the puffing of his chest

              by the stance he finally

takes, breaking our distance

              and the way he holds

his clipboard as a shield

              against death; that’s

the way he says without a

              breath, “this is serious”.

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2010. All rights reserved.

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There are shows nowadays

          that let us ride along

safely from our homes

          with the kind of people

who cast an imprint on the flat world

          that you and I travel on.

My uncle, the sailor, for example,

          who got a tattoo in the Navy

before they became crackerjack stickers

          or cheap substitutes for personality

was one of those who marked the earth

          with his work and left behind a hurt

now that he’s gone past horizons

          we cannot yet get to;

and we are left at the pier, standing by an edge

          measuring the air with everyone around

until we are met with what we can recall –

which are all the pieces of the world

          he scraped off with his fingertips

and nails to bring home

          and mix with the salt of our meals.

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2010. All rights reserved.

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for Haiti after 2010 earthquake

.

Damage to the Presidential Palace is most obvious,

for it is hard to tell which of the other buildings

were already on their knees when the shaking struck.

.

In the pictures I have seen,

wide eyes look out

from their black and brown backgrounds

onto a fresh horror that

arrived from deep beneath the earth.

.

The soil is used to blood in Haiti

and the world is used to watching.

.

The news reports say the quake registered

seven on the scale,

but the island has been at the epicenter

since Columbus landed with smallpox and crucifixes –

lost but determined to profit.

.

To rebuild the Presidential Palace,

     where the Tonton Macoutes were born

     where Poppa schooled Baby Doc

          to brutalize in the grandest Western way,

               first in ties and suits and then

              wearing pleated uniforms with

              officers’ hats and a small herd of

              medallions hung from their breasts

              marking where their hearts had died,

postcards will be used for comparison.

.

In the pictures I have seen

it is clear that the heavens too

turned their backs long ago

just as we do daily here on earth.

.

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2010. All rights reserved.

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