Letters From Uncle Sid

It was at my Grandfather's funeral while the minister was delivering the eulogy that I first heard my Granddad was a writer. I was 18 at the time and this came as complete suprising news to me. 

'...although never published, Mr Robinson was a prolific writer...'

In the days that soon came to pass and the trauma of his death wore thinner, I began to question my Mom and aunts and uncles...

'Granddad was a writer?'

'Oh yes, he wrote every day.'

'Why was he never published?'

'He never tried.'

'Why?'

'He had to raise a family. There was no time for that.'

My mom shared with me a box of letters he wrote to her during the 16 years that she and my father lived in New England. There were volumes of hand written notes on onion skin paper reporting the comings and goings of the small rural Florida town where he lived painted with British colloquialisms, ribald humor and love. Always much love to his dearest daughter from Dad. 

Phone calls of condolence from the family still in England came from across the pond with all the cousins saying 'Ah, I shall miss my letters from Uncle Sid.'

It had been a few short weeks earlier that I was sitting at his bedside in ICU, holding his hand and telling him that I had been writing a lot of poetry lately and had just finished one last night. I know it is a good one, I said, because it is about you. His eyes welled up and he attempted to speak but was thwarted by the feeding and oxygen tubes. He didn't have to say a word, the expression on his face told our story. I said, 'I love you too Granddad.' That was the last time I saw him alive.

So it came to be that a week or so after his passing that I was sitting on the edge of my bed in the wee hours of morning tripping on a hit of acid. I became aware of him sitting next to me on my left. I felt a great wind and a vacuum that I can only imagine is what it is like to swept up inside a tornado. My perception left my body and I observed from above my Granddad passing through me and leaving the gift of his love of writing. Then he was gone. 

My perception returned to my body to discover me gasping for air. When I regained my breath I began to cry uncontrollably. When the deluge of tears ceased, I lunged for the nearest paper and pen and began to write with a drive, ferocity and passion that I had never before possessed and has never left me since. 

It was in that hallucinogenic midnight I was struck by the lightening bolt of sudden enlightenment by the essence of someone who will love me forever that I came to realize it is not the eloquent configuration of words that provide a map towards immortality, it is the indefatigable spirit that weaves them. 

It is the unseen force behind the hand that drives a pen to write regardless of whatever extenuating circumstances may prevail.

Because it is poetry that can speak eternally from beyond the lips of death. 

The Old Wheel

Shining a light

through a hole in my head

wondering, musing, beguiling, intrepid

come these creatures and souls

flitting on footpaths

stretching from ear to ear

An incomplete sonnet

of razor sharp wit

begs and commands transmission

fruition and destiny

to the end of a path

devoid of primroses

and saturated with empty ears

that desire to be filled

The road once less traveled

is now bumper to bumper

shrieking and honking

with those who curse

the lack of originality

Didn’t we find

on a sailor’s night out

the passage of words

exchanged between strangers

sitting on dry lonesome gravestones

are a hand from a mouth

clutching childlike sighs

The worst from the fighting

lies in the chambers

and not on the fields

but within

not without

and the walls could burst

at the seams with dismay

and lollipop fantasies

and shattered glass dreams

and workings of poets

and the field hands scream

are but a reminder

are but an alarm

are a monkey wrench

covering the chaos of it all

Knowing not why

except but to do

while running up steam

and circles of smoke

from the fatted cigar

of the one who cares not

Isn’t it nice

and pleasantly easy

to turn the old wheel

until it dense

and encrusted with cobwebs

finding no reason for oil or water

it grows and it dies

and comes round full circle

until it arrives and regresses

Lightning will fall

and ears remain deaf

clocking sheer reason

and all that is true

surviving the panty raids

hiking the canyons

pulling from stones

blood and dew

The four horsemen have disbanded

so worry you not

the apocalypse has no catalyst

and Armageddon no fuel

the new world is the old one

the old one grows new 

Sitting still

in the snug of our bed

with visions of demons

that dance in our heads

we lie to the angels

and hand them our faith

for five bucks and a wink

they will keep us all safe

from those heretic bastards

who are stinking of gin

with their cross fingered hands

in their pockets 

and spit on their chin

So sing us this song, shall we?

one last long time

while we scatter rose petals

and drink fast our wine

for my mistress is calling 

and I’ve run out of time

I must now kiss her toes

and coo in her ear

hymns and sonnets

and love poems dear

to unwrinkle her brow

and cast sleep in her eyes

deaden her eardrums

and silence her sighs

When she falls limp

we’ll have run of the place

my pen and my muses

and my pulsating hand

we’ll drink to oblivion

and bless this fine land

The light will shine

and our eyelids will part

then I’ll puke forth the poem

wedged in my heart

Blessings and love always,

Max