… beyond grief.

By J. K. McDowell

March 2011


I rushed through the turning pages of darkness

And pale moonlight.  Now in view, you’re with two fairies.

Then the next breath, gone!  I ‘m lost in the mist and the grief.


Is the padded cell a preferred suffering?

One can’t get a doctorate without studying.

I question your major = madness born from her grief.


The trees had witnessed blood-splattered grasses.

Oh voice of andalusian dusts, you could

Face the cold rifle muzzles without fear, without grief.


The ticket is lost and hence the jewelry

I borrowed sits unclaimed at the pawnshop.

Your eyes mirror my disappointment and grief.


The turning of the hurdy gurdy mixes the clay

And compost of memory as the grinding wheel

Polishes the rough gems of accepting this grief.


James K., you could diagram the blind choices and

The certain targets, the unknowns and the knowns.

The Soul cannot be ignored, move beyond grief.