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I realized that I could not expect anyone to read a 66 line poem commemorating Russ, except those few who are disposed to rendering me a very great kindness. So I tried again. I’ll post this poem on my Facebook page on February 17th.
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February 17th, 2023
3rd Iteration
Loosely, after a poem by the Irishman, Patrick Kavanagh
In Memory of my Beloved Husband, Floyd Russell Taylor
Always In Memory of my Mentor, Emily Dickinson, who made me Hers. Poetry Is Singing.
And for my Teacher, who is in Ireland, Bede Smith
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I commemorate him here where he lays
Stilled, in a room apart from the wailing
Ruined, born under runes of misfortune.
A bird from the sill alights into flight,
While high in the blue bright, her winged kin
Cartwheel joyfully as his spirit joins
Their swell, delaying Heaven for a day,
Perhaps a night. Among the plebeians
He sees a hapless “Steves,” his happiness
Utterly forsaken, though he be not.
If the ceiling be uncovered to sight
A hovering Russ, the knots of sorrow
In his heart could be undone, utterly.
A plot of grief should hold a hope like gold,
Not ash, as if hope lie dashed. Sting these words
Into the tombstones. Let them gleam, glisten.
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Listen to Steve sing. (Then (Alla), dance your answer.)
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Steven Golden
Written in Green Valley, AZ
Sunday, January 28th, 9 AM
stevengoldenpoetry 