POEMS FOR A DYING MAN

ROBERT WALLACE PAOLINELLI

Poem for a Dying Man

Skin and bones.

Morphine eases

your pain;but

you will die--

nonetheless.

You helped de-

sign an oil

pipeline a

thousand miles

long.But in

this ghost house

hospital, you

are just another

ICU patient in

a coma, breathing

oxygen pumped

into your lungs

through a plastic

tube coming out

of the wall into

the plastic mask

over your nose and

mouth.

You can't move;

you can't talk;

you are already

a corpse.

You did not hear

my voice or feel

the touch of my

hand;and you were

oblivious to the

prayers to St.

Michael and Padre

Pio of your wife,

who like a sentinel,

has been at your

side night and day.

Somewhere in the

living corpse of

you, somewhere in

or near your guts

and blood and sweats

and muscles and

cells, is the

immortal soul.

So as I look at

you all emaciated

and numb to the

world, I don't

feel too badly

knowing you are

near to the

Golden Light.

At noon I left.

Are you still

alive?

*/*/*/*/*/*/

This morning I

bought a fresh

loaf of cornbread.

The baker put it

in a white paper

bag.

When I broke off

the pointed end,

I gave thanks to

God for my daily

bread.

On the way to visit

a dying man, I ate

the bread.It was my

breakfast.Just bread,

taken into my mouth

in communion with

the divine.

When the loaf was

finished, I scattered

the crumbs for the

birds.

I needed a piece

of paper.I had no

paper;but I had a

paper bag, white;a

perfect sheet for

my needs.

Even the lowly bread bag

sustains my poet's urge,

and is twice used:once to

carry my bread, now to re-

cord my sentiments.

The Muse did not

forget the paper.

*/*/*/*/*/*/

III

A lone bamboo

flute serenades

the eventide

and I am a little sad.

The world

readies itself

for sleep:The birds

have stopped singing

and all the dogs

are quiet;even

the cats do not

stir.

Nothing moves.

The air is only

filled with the

sound of a

shakuhachi

Oh, I am

both happy and

sad.I want

to luagh and

cry...

*/*/*/*/*/*/

The three

jewels:

The Dharma

The Sangha

The Trans-

cension of the

finite self

into the

realm of

negating the

world and

finding re-

fuge in the

lotus.

*/*/*/*/*/*/

Underneath

my street

clothes

is a naked

monk.

*/*/*/*/*/*

Waiting.

Nothing waits for life

or death.

Life is.

Death is.

There is no waiting for

either.

Life is.

Death is.

Sanctities.

All around us is the answer.

Look under your feet.

Amid the dust and dirt and

grime is the

divine. Look!

Can't you

see it?

*/*/*/*/*/*/

VII

At an old friend's

house.

Our sons are

young men;many

years have passed

since we met.

This afternnon we shared

a late lunch.We ate

as much as we wanted.

Outside the sun was

shining and the wind

was moving the trees.

Everything in the house

was quiet except for

our knives and forks

and our teeth.

It is good to have

young sons

to think about

and to have an

old friend to go to

after one has visi-

ted a dying man.

*/*/*/*/*/*

VII

The shakuhachi is a

piece of bamboo with

holes drilled into it.

Nothing special:

wood

space

air

lips

tongue

fingers.

How then is its

dulcet music

made?

Can spit laden

air, space and a

piece of common

bamboo make

such ethereal music?

Yes.

Listen.Can't

you hear it?

*/*/*/*/*/*

Mill Valley

October 14th, 1996

{NOTE BY R. Haig: Fragmented text below retrieved from original MS Word document. It is unknown if the line breaks were intentionally set as shown}

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