Death of A Friend

I heard his final gasp
that long gurgling sigh
followed by a spewing
like a tire leaking down
a few thumps and clicks
followed by a death rattle

I remember those good times
we spent together for years
since our first joyful meeting
all those times he carried me
during bleak winter mornings
one warm cup after another

I feel a strange sense of loss
as I ponder should I replace
this friend who has succumbed
to ravages of time and neglect
always faithful day or night
Alas, my friend is no more

 

BORROWED WORDS

His followers called him Mahasamatman and said he was a god. He preferred

to drop the Maha- and the -atman, however, and called himself Sam. He never

claimed to be a god. But then, he never claimed not to be a god. Circum-

stances being what they were, neither admission could be of any benefit.

Silence, though, could.

— Roger Zelazny

When you are about to die, a wombat is better than no company at all.

— Roger Zelazny, “Doorways in the Sand”

There are times when my words wander
off on their own and become lost
search as I might nothing comes forth
blank pages strewn across my desk
yield nothing more than frustration
an emptiness of useless thought
causing words to fly beyond reach
make me turn in desperation
and make use of another’s work
I place my hope on borrowed words
look for thoughts of my very own

—–Jerry Marks