I wrote this for D. D., my friend for six years, my captain for the same, my "sister" for life. He lived his own way - a way of courage and deep peace. He died in his own way, as well. The hardest part was watching such a strong, vital man go down so quickly. He stood tall until the very end, though.

"This one is for you, my brother..." Jim Carroll, 1979

Set Sail For the Heart of the
Sun (for David)
by ROSTI

Oh, Captain...
On our trip to the Island
We talked about many things.

We smoked Marlboros, ate sandwiches,
Did sailing things, talked through the tequila.
It was fun when the boat passed so close by, with the "horny" sailors...
Sharing with us the secret contents of their pants.

The talk that followed was so natural, to me.
It was about the most sensitive of issues,
But our discussion was as natural as my motion tonight.

*************************************************************

The call came at evening.
I had to go to confirm his death...
That was my job.

When I saw him, I recognized that he was in that place-
The place we discussed on the boat.
My charge would have to be one of protection for him
As he tried to die.

He had already lived his life when he decided to let go.
We talked about his perception that life had become more of a hassle,
I argued successfully, for a few times, that it had not...
but the topic came up more and more,
Better argued each time.

I could see by his bony frame and mottled skin this was going to be my last visit.
His body felt so cold, so distant...not like living flesh...more like the best of impostors
His jaw slacking so...just severe enough to turn his face into a masque,
Unreal...but real enough...actually, as real as it gets.

**************************************************************

I have served my Captain as valiantly as I could.
I have no such servant...my route is up to me, alone,
Searching the grimy walls of backrooms and johns in bars
They promise to show you a way to paradise...
But more often, they cannot deliver their promises
Unless there is someone as connected as we were...

Now *I* is all alone.

© Richard A. Martin, Jr., MD, 1996

D. H. J. was a dear friend I met at work. Her husband, B. J., had passed away in 1993, leaving her heartbroken. She recovered nicely, though, by the
Spring of 1996, when she fell victim to a drunken driver. I helped install her panel during the last exhibition of the complete Quilt in the fall of 1996. I think she would have approved. D. H. J. introduced me to Ryan White, a very courageous man.

Serenity
(for Debbi)

by ROSTI

I am a lucky man;
Last week I dined with a goddess.
She was serene.
That serenity poured out to all...


I ate the Country Fried Steak.
The waitress laughed at the snappy banter,
We all were in the moment...safe and well...happy and focused.
That serenity poured out to all...


We looked at the bookstore,
Dawdled over Cranberry muffins and strong, rich Starbuck's coffee,
Pulling ourselves from each other, but confident in our individual control over time.
That serenity poured out to all...


So, now - now that tomorrow has come and gone, leaving me behind,
Now that the sky cries and the moon is cut to a shred.
What now of serenity? Where is it? Has it left me empty and alone?
Where is...that serenity pouring out to all?


Beautiful angel...you ARE the Golden Eternity to me.
The knowledge that you and your soulmate occupy the same plane,
The peace to know, unequivocally, that this mortal coil has no more threat to you...
That serenity pours out to all...


And my hot tears run like water, when I'm alone, washing the sting of my selfish loss from my puny soul.
Fly on angel...steal a kiss for me...I see your tattoo
EVERYWHERE...

I see you in my mind's eye...your hair is
PERFECT.

Ó Richard A. Martin, Jr., MD, 1996

This one is for my son...who is my total reason for living...thanx, guy!!

Son
by Rosti

Across the miles,
A man moves in space To reunite himself with his link…
To the future.

The child struggles against the scepter of sleep.
He feels the excitement Of being reunited, Succumbing to the dark cloak of slumber.
He makes it, though.

The father, with a curious combination scent of sweat, Lagerfeld, smoke and fabric softener
Enters the room.

The child, eyelids heavier than lead,
Rushes forward.
He grabs his DNA link
At the knees…hugging hard…hugging long.

"I Love You, Dad," his tiny voice said.
"I stayed up late just to see you!"
The father grabbed him by the armpits,
And pressed the child's soft face against his wiry beard.

And a kiss sealed the transaction.
A pure and essential show of love…
A love that transcended all loves. …
A love between a father and son…
And the child slept the sleep of peace.

© Richard A. Martin, Jr., MD, 1997

Show Me

He sat there perplexed, hurt. "Just this one day, Lord…just this one day." It was a supplication unheard…another prayer not answered. His quizzical pile of things he felt were important to his left, waiting to be done another day. His personal desires ignored, as if he were the Invisible Man. The words, "…the darkest hour is always right before dawn…" echoed inside his ringing head as did the question, "Why?" Who was gonna be better off for this exercise in denial?

He had not actually lost his religion…but he was disappointed. It seemed like the "darkest hour" really never came…just a sequentially darker and darker hour. Even he had some hidden "retribution" agenda that he would play on himself…perhaps he had learned it from the fearless free-thinkers…it made such little sense to him. It seemed more like craps…throw your dice, collect or pay your ticket…goodbye. Can you really fault a guy for the course of dumb luck?

The apparent answer to that question is "Hell yes!" I guess we are all like lambs on our way to the slaughter; probably at that point, someone in the lamb community has figured a way to absolve his or her "sin" as being dependent on someone else…that was his guess. He was not sure who among the lambs OR the humans, though, this was gonna benefit…we would all still be eaten, just some hearts would be broken more than others.

He had friends that told him that his pursuit at excellence, his striving for honesty – brutal honesty, his attempts to stamp out pain and misunderstanding…to do things the way they should be done, instead of the way that they were being done - right or wrong…that these were silly pursuits. There was no way to counter the position…we all had to live with our systems. The systems that drove us down, that raped our children’s futures and ours; the systems that were not based on the sublime, but on the ridiculous.

And then he focused on another line of thinking. He thought about a person that had no pre-existing stock in him, yet seemed to love him, anyway. He thought about family and friends, who did have pre-existing stock in him who were still with him, even at this moment. He thought about people he would meet in his day, about the way that, even despite the scars, he could shower them with love to a greater or lesser degree. He thought about how he still could give to those less fortunate than he…how much of the spirit he must have to allow that to happen.

And then he closed his eyes, and saw a day like he had seen before. A day where things worked again…where no one he had control of went hungry or without…were shylocks "knew" in their shylocky ways just what a hard worker, just what a valuable person, just what a potent man he was. And his "family" – the lover, the son, the dog – they would be able to see how much he cared in a tangible, palpable way. He would be back; he would have been to Hell, and, just like the Prodigal Son, he would be back…home…where he belonged. There would be days when he would sleep on satin sheets, and awaken in a start, perspiring, tugging at the sheets, trying to prevent himself from being dragged back…then he would recall that this was just a dream…that his reality was in goodness and peace…not in sorrow, disease, and lack.

But what lessons would he have learned? Or would his balm simply lull him into the place he was BEFORE he was one of the needy? The place where the neediness would be clinically inspected, categorized, fixed - if possible…but hardly ever possible? The "fix" we get from the Devil’s temptation is very strong…it can wipe away ANY good intention, except that of God’s…and we are none of us gods!

He closed his eyes…lowered his head…and begged:

Show me, please

That is all he ever wanted…that…and peace…

He was somehow sure that they would come again. Call it hope, for lack of a better term…like delusion.

Ó Richard A. Martin, Jr., MD - 6.6.98

Got something to share?? Send it to me...I'll check it out and, perhaps, publish it here, with your approval.
ROSTI52@msn.com
Down the River...

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