Who are the ones living? (poem)

So young. So much left to do. So much and yet so little.
Years unspent, memories that will never be kept.
He died, there is a coffin now and he died.
He died, there is a hearse now and he died.
He died, there is a six foot hole and he died.
And that is all they will say today.
…
But he lived, my god he lived beyond us all.
Us who breathe, us who gain weight and drink whiskey-
he lived and sparked ferocious laughter that shook sound waves.
He lived beyond a 100 years and died before 30 years.
But he was not counting, we are the ones counting.
So, who are the ones living?
…
Funerals are late arrivals to celebrations of life,
reminds the dead that we (thankfully) have life for today.
We do not bury a dead son, brother, friend and lover today.
For he was never dead, we are never dead.
In reality, we begin to die soon as we start living.
Honestly, we die each day we are not fully living.
…
We speak of death more than we speak of the name,
we talk of loss more than we talk of what we gained,
we shed pain more than we cherish the light,
but remember, there must be stars before there is night.

One of my poems is getting published!

Received a letter this morning from ForwardPoetry, they would like to publish one of my poems! After a rough few weeks it has upped my spirits and strengthened my confidence. I owe some of that confidence to my readers and frequent commentators who do nothing but encourage me and deepen my passion for poetry. Thank you.

It is much better to drift from people you thought you knew than to drift further away from your journey just to please those who no longer have time for you

Consider me there (poem)

I’d risk another attack for the last of your cigarette,
I don’t want to miss, I’d rather your bitter regret,
descend into any darkness for the sake of your glow,
I cannot tell you but darling you have to to know.

Swinging from telephone wires in the piss poor rain,
there is no lesson to learn in something you would do again,
whatever you desire is whatever I’ll be,
I cannot show you but baby you have to see.

I’ve practiced to perfection juggling these grenades,
in awe of something that is never quite contained,
What if I am too late and I disappear?
It cannot leave my mouth but you have to hear.

Kisses by altars or by hospital beds,
in New York apartments or rooms under the stairs,
if it’s a new dress or the falling of your hair,
whatever the day, consider me there.