*I believe my teaching, writing, mentoring is only a point on a line; at times, a punctiliar act, over time, allowing a sprout to grow, perhaps in a harvest, toward a new day, a transformation. And these ideas are not my own.
My short poems about Tyler continue. Some I post on social media. Others have yet to be published anywhere. A number of folks have encouraged me to put these all in a book. I will work toward that end. I write these words in the early morning hours on my front porch, the world around me is still; just as he and I enjoyed our time together on his porch or our deck. This piece was originally titled, “Friends,” written the week of 28 August 2023.
Mark Eckel, 26 August 2022, nine weeks after the death of my son, Tyler Micah
Care
Eye to eye
I did not lie
“Request in prayer?”
“That I would care,”
But, If I don’t
Does that mean you won’t
Value my condition
My honest admission?
Beliefs not changed
Though emotions ranged
From despair
To “I don’t care.”
Hard to be
How others see
A different me
Cork on the sea.
Storm tossed
Feel lost
A heavy cost
“Care” exhaust,
While I do my part
From the start
Do not expect,
When you inspect,
My soul.
I am not whole.
Tears fill my eyes
No surprise.
You may not see
Immediately
Cries collect –
I can deflect –
To another time,
More prime,
When I am alone
Emotion you can’t condone
If I say
What is true today
“Trying to care”
Think not, “he need repair.”
After that, I will not share.
I hope the same fare
You will not bear
But if…I will meet you there.
Moving on
An awful phrase
This, no phase
I don’t pretend
I’ve reached an end.
Can’t move
No groove
You want exposure?
The myth is “closure.”
My words profane
Some say “Refrain!”
Can’t be suppressed,
Stuff your protest.
Could care less
If you’re compassionless
Could not care in the least,
As I battle the beast.
My wound may scar
On memory a mar
I will carry it far
Unlike golf, there is no par.
My tattoo is not for you
My ink is not what you think.
No parlor you want to enter
See me, your welted mentor.*
*The poetry reflects a response to some who want those in grief to “get on with life.” The truth is, there is no timetable for grief. And it is important to say that no one fully understands another’s pain. Solomon’s wisdom prevails, “The heart knows its own bitterness and no stranger shares its joy” (Proverbs 14:10 ESV) and Paul’s solution is best, “Weep with those who weep” (Romans 12:15).
The featured image is a book that Robin and I have read and highly recommend it to all. But honestly, I have been writing my way through grief because of Tyler’s death. What you find below are three of the poems I have written in the past couple of weeks. If you would like to follow the fullness of my writing do follow me on Facebook. You can find much more there.
Obligation
I do what I must
Touch of dust.
I reach, wanting return,
Into an empty cistern.
Dry well
Spiders swell.
Woven webs
Desire ebbs.
My core
Is no more.
Joy replaced
Tears on my face.
Work a drudge
Flow of sludge.
Obligation
My only motivation.
A smile will meet you
When I greet you.
It is a placeholder
For pain I shoulder.
For those who suffer
Give a buffer.
Grant space
And a little grace.
Set expectations aside
Stand by my side,
In silence
Quiet alliance.
Don’t ask, don’t tell
Your words, quell.
Let me be
But be with me.
Mark Eckel, 11 August 2022, seven weeks after the death of my son, Tyler Micah
Mandate
Edvard Munch
Art punch
Blood red sky
Silent the cry.
Solace
In silence
Sought;
But naught.
Early morning
No warning
Darkness descends
Starkness upends.
Bursts of interest,
Momentary.
Searches for rest,
Arbitrary.
Human
My acumen;
Unable
To label.
Real, not fake
For his sake
I continue
Seeking sinew.
Czeslaw Milosz
No gauche
The dead in living trust
So, living, speak, I must.*
*Czeslaw Milosz’s 1980 Nobel acceptance speech contains the truth, “Those who are alive receive a mandate from those who are silent forever.” Edvard Munch’s “Silent Scream” is an apt artistic depiction for all who have no words in their agony.
Loathing
Every step
A rep,
I, robot,
Caring, not.
Wishing passport
Chasing deport.
Every effort
To abort.
Caring gone
Seeking brawn
To carry on.
I, withdrawn.
What does it matter
If I scatter
To the wind,
My efforts thinned?
I’m lazy
Thoughts hazy,
Energy drained
Worship feigned.
Make no mistake,
I continue to ache,
Roiling tide,
Not soon to subside.
Having read,
Stay with my dread,
Keep up with me
Need of company.
Not as you suppose
With much prose.
Words abate,
Stay by the gate.
Soon, I hope,
To grab the rope,
To stay my fall
From this pall.
For me pray,
Do not say
You understand
Just with me, stand.
Mark Eckel, 31 August 2022, ten weeks after the death of my son, Tyler Micah
Termination*
*I believe my teaching, writing, mentoring is only a point on a line; at times, a punctiliar act, over time, allowing a sprout to grow, perhaps in a harvest, toward a new day, a transformation. And these ideas are not my own.
Don’t
Clenched
Cusp
What’s Left
Care
Moving on
Obligation
Mandate
Loathing