I Wish All My Dead Friends Had Been Poets...
I finally did what I should have years ago,
Bought Caroline's chapbooks,
Reading them a poem an evening.
Getting to know the person beyond the venue,
More than just the readings and the museums.
It's funny how we all just see facets,
One shiny face on the surface of the complexity,
With textures even Einstein couldn't wrap in an equation.
For Janine,
Who spun off this timeline over a decade ago,
Well,
I rescued her poetry,
Have most of it packed away,
Hoping I can put it on her memorial,
Maybe it will still matter.
Hell,
I couldn't even save all of mine from the site that died,
But I digress.
Scott never wrote more than an email,
Well,
There are Facebook posts,
But those don't open into your soul,
Not like poems do.
Russell was the quietest,
Just there in my personal legends,
The fixture of an old friend,
Until he wasn't.
Time just said fork it here,
And now I have a headstone maybe to visit,
That and his son,
Who is gracious.
Rob is the one who hid,
Always a wonderful gabber,
All grace and sunshine on the outside,
Not glitter or glam,
So much as forties film in living color,
Until the black hole inside climbed up a rope.
Poetry might not have saved them,
But it could've saved the best shards.
Glittering shards,
Priceless bits of understanding,
If you ken the wyrd of a soul.
I wish all my dead friends had been poets,
At least I could sit with them quietly and read.
The list is longer,
But how many of us actually write anymore?
Never enough.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 04/09/2026
Regards,
Dan Stafford
Dan Stafford