The Dove April 21, 2o16

So, I'm frantically working on my annual B-day poem wondering exactly where the hell this damn thing is going. It's making no sense, it means nothing . . . and not in a good way. And then something happens. The world changes a bit . . . a bit gloomier than it was before. Not much on eulogies for the rich and famous. Figure there's enough folks in the world to do that . . . and most much better than me. But for some reason unknown to me I have decided to write something about a someone who moved on from this plain of existence. It's also going to be a part of the B-day poem I'm working on.

The Dove

I woke up to the news:

On this bright blue sky morning,

the Dove has been eaten by Crows.
On this bright blue sky morning,
a pure white cloud weeps silently.
The wind, however, rages.
It’s never subtle with its grief.

I wonder why the Crows were so eager to destroy,

to rip apart the beautiful song the Dove sang?
What’s the simplest explanation? Well, they’re Crows,
what should we’ve expected?

My ears will miss his voice for a moment or two,

but then they’ll move on even before the day is done
because there are more troubling things to worry about.

The passing of a Dove is a minor thing compared

to everything else that is going on, keeps going on,
keeps moving on, rushing down the drainpipe.

That’s how we survive.

That’s how we exist.
You must keep moving.
Woodie o4-21-16