I love this poem so much that I'm gonna share it with ya'll.

metaphor • 3 December 2011 at 3:23 PM

I can find a good performance of it on ytube, so I'm just gonna copy and paste the words. It's called Jean Heath by Buddy Wakefield. It really means something to me at the moment, and that it's so dang gorgeous doesn't help. Also, it's rare that I get the chance to share my favorite poems here because most have language/touchy topics that are best suited elsewhere.😋 But this poem is tame, just incredibly touching. You may shed a tear. Be warned! Feel free to share your own favorite poems/pieces of writing as well.

In the end
Jean Heath's home was filled with people
who claimed to know her better than they actually did.
They swapped tissues and embellished stories
to appear closer to Jean Heath than they actually were
in the same way wearing expensive clothes on Sunday
apparently brings wealthy Baptists closer to God than they actually are.

It were mostly unfamiliar faces
who seemed to be looking for due credit
on the role they may or may not have played
in the life of Jean Heath,
networking their sorrow and searching
like they always do in every death
for the gate to restoration
as if this life really wants us to stay here.

They took turns crying on Jean Heath?s face
as a sign that she would be missed.
There was so much crying that I, the caregiver,
could hear Jean Heath?s bed sheets slap together when she moved.
And there was food, y'all.
Holy holy there was so much food.
At least an acre of it.


--continued--

isis • 3 December 2011 at 3:24 PM

*post so you can continue*

metaphor • 3 December 2011 at 3:26 PM

Thanks!

Across the kitchen countertops and over the tables,
falling out of the refrigerator and along the arms of chairs.
There were plastic cups with names written on them.
Sometimes twice. Sometimes two cups.
Kids lose stuff.

There was ambrosia with snot on it
cornbread with tears in it
black-eyed peas with the trembling ladle
strawberry rhu-barbed wire pie, melty vanilla ice cream pulp
and there were perfect middle squares still left in the brownie pan.
I know who ate the end pieces.
The little ones were warned
that death is a very serious matter
so they had better not act up
or else they would be forced
to pick their own switch
and get whipped with it.

We were tricked into fearing the ways we will leave this planet.

Emily Holder was 26-years-old that day when
she came to play piano for her best friend, Jean Heath, age 87
who lay flat and velvet on her death bed
lookin' like the front pew of a gospel church without the guilt.
When the other guests asked Emily how she knew Jean Heath
Emily thought of Jean's lonely days on the porch
when no one came to visit
when the money ran out
when the yearning for love haunted her
taught her how heavy the hollows are
how crippled a memory can make ya
how sometimes she cried so hard her throat locked out all the noise.
I trust you people?
about as far as I can throw you?
Emily said,
"and I can't throw you."

The candles inside her piano keys
are why Emily Holder's fingertips burn when she plays.


--continued-

sky • 3 December 2011 at 3:28 PM

/Let's you continue/

metaphor • 3 December 2011 at 3:30 PM

She doesn't scare Jean Heath when she plays like that.
She bangs both feet down on the sustain pedal bouncing
when she sings like that
teeth all gripped out like a hallway howling
Holler holler she sang
I'm goin' home.
Might be a little bit bit but
I'm gonna showem.
Might be dirty
might be skinny like water
but there's a hole in God and I'm not
gonna fall down in there.

And that day when she played
sometimes with her knuckles
mostly with her memory
she remembered a true story she read alone
in a book about self acceptance
a true story of a girl
who sat at the bedside of her mother in a coma
until one morning before dawn her mother opened her eyes
looked clearly and intently at the daughter and said,
You know,
all my life
I thought something was wrong with me.
Then the mother shook her own head as if to say "What a waste"
before drifting back into a coma where
she died several hours later.
You knew she would.

These stories we give each other
are just different reasons for begging you
to find a reason to stay.
But nobody's gonna stay here.
Emily knows Jean Heath won?t stay here.
She's cool with that.
They both just wished they would've known
a little sooner about this life that every loss
doesn't have to cost so much
doesn't have to hit so heavy
doesn't have to get so dirty.

--continued--

whitefall • 3 December 2011 at 3:34 PM

Posts

metaphor • 3 December 2011 at 3:34 PM

Dirty Dirty like Christ
on his little brown mule.
I was baptized in tap water
and I never really went to school.
I got a hunger for ya.
I got a hunger for you
but I never but I never
but I never really came through.

Jean Heath was tender and bossy in the moment
she finally called Emily Beeshold to her bedside.
While Jean was happy that her house
smelled like a baked good
and she was thankful
for the best of the gestures from the guests in the bedrooms
and she was wondering about some of the recipes,
Jean was very clear and very intent
when she finally pulled Emily's ear
down to her mouth and said inside of it,
Get these people out of my house.
I've never died before
and I'm gonna enjoy it.

--done--