by: Ronald Peter Dungog

In this house we made a home

four twinkling lights

a silent moon

one bright star-the heart that is a home

a struggle from the start

we were all cut not born

as time passed

we grew to know that firm hand

that firm voice exclamated with stinging ears

many  tear has fallen

many a hit a-taken

strangley never bruising

only later we realize, as wisdom awakens, our ignorance

as we suffered through her discipline

she suffered along with us

as we lived through our own experiences

battered, broken, beaten and stricken with grief

we have learned to come home,

to come home to the warmth of her light

to her unwavering strength

and took our pain as her own

lessening our own

as years pass our light brightens

and her as bright as ever

but the body weakens

but she was selfish

and only shared a little

the rest she kept for herself

knowing it would soon take her

only so late in our lives do we realize

that our light was brighter because she has been giving hers

as our hearts break and tears flow at her passing

we realized that

God truly does only take the best

The heart that is our home

Dec 14/07

Rest in peace Ma (September 22, 1951-December 12, 2007)

written by my cousin for his mom who passed away early this December. We are with you on this Ron. Truly deaths do amputate our senses as i am now at a loss for words. Although i barely even knew here i do not deny her existence, i do not deny the love and the care she has unselfishly shared. She was a remarkable woman, a remarkable mother and because she has fought well she will be prized; eternal love and eternal life. Truly God only takes whats best.She has shared her light, her love, which exudes time and death. May she rest in peace.

“Love is stronger than death even though it can’t stop death from happening, but no matter how hard death tries it can’t separate people from love. It can’t take away our memories either. In the end, life is stronger than death.”

Tonight i can write the saddest lines.

Write for example " i am he who suffered a triple death and survived a thousand blows."

=============================

Death abounds me. None of the things i’ve written will level with the grief i am feeling.

=============================

"She was a woman of the house" this is how i come to remember her. My mind, reaching up to more than two decades of vague recollections, those brief encounters i’ve had with my Tita Baby.

It’s her, bent over, head held close to the electric fan while raking her disheveled hair to dry and nervoulsy muttering insrtuctions to herself than to anyone around her.

Even this last lingering image of her seemed vague and imaginary. All my life it seemed as if i’ve only known her for 10 seconds, this minute image somehow vanished with the sound of a coin that dropped on the floor that same instant, enough to drown the memory into oblivion. Till then i’ts as if nothing existed between her and me. Even up to now when i struggle to recall that brief 10 seconds, my thoughts seemed paralyzed as i remember nothing.

i thought i never knew and will never get to define her position in my life. That for the entire time we’ve been apart i will tend to forget her and that it will take an odd moment before she remembers me.

However, a phone call or a greeting card helps to retrace this lost connection.

Her death evokes an indeterminate feeling: there is pain that inpires tears and utter resignation to the irrevocable and there is of course ineffable joy for her eternal repose. The measures for survival from Crohn’s disease seemed almost too cruel for her.

Her passing which somehow amputated my senses reveals that there is nothing; no land nor ocean that separates me from her. Her death is her freedom from earthly sufferings and a confirmation of my unacknowledged affection for her.

Tonight we will storm the heavens to bouy you up to where it is better, where you won’t suffer, sans the evil . . . . till the next encounter.

=================================

I KNOW I AM NOT DEAD. I’M ONLY FORGOTTEN.

=================================

another form of death. Never never. No more November.

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

December 14, 2007

"Never-Never"
by Marge Piercy

Missing is a pain
in everyplace
making a toothache
out of a day.
But to miss something
that never was:
the longest guilt
the regret that comes down
like a fine ash
year after year
is the shadow of what
we did not dare.
All the days that go out
like neglected cigarettes,
the days that dribble away.
How often does love strike?
We turn into ghosts
loitering outside doorways
we imagined entering.
In the lovers’ room
the floor creaks,
dust sifts from the ceiling,
the golden bed has been hauled away
by the dealer
in unused dreams.

  orpheus descending

i know November

i know you fear my weather

you fear the tides of which i drown you

over and over,

you fear that my sentences never end,

my statements and its horrific complications,

that i can be

a taut rope wrung in your neck,

a tireless, blow-hard delegate with

a sycophantic laugh and

an inclination to burn amongst the bluest proximas,

i am the face you shiver from in your sleep,

a nondescript seducer who gabs

cliché per cliché of grandiloqous ballyhoos,

jabbing words after words,

paltry of the kind

like an antiquated lover hooked on wine,

i am my own shame, grief and madness’

amanuensis,

i know i can be a bit too much

too much

for your tea-bag lungs,

too much like a mad poet’s allegory,

too much like a thick brew of history,

i am heaven, hell and purgatory

i am your gothic lover

singing a paean to madness

i bore the stigma on my skin

like a painting of a bad picture

i know November,

my dear non-gullible factor,

i know you fear every inch of me

and i

understand why you refused to descend from your tower

i think i really do, like

30 minutes

10 seconds

and 2 life-years ago

October 14, 2007