Loss – KensView

Taking Flight

At the open front door,
the sun spilling gold across the yard,
and I stand watching you,
my child,
Your bags carefully packed
and filled with anticipation for
a story yet to unfold.

I remember tiny hands clutching my finger,
and the way you looked up,
eyes bright with the world,
unafraid of its vastness,
unaware of its weight—
gathering dreams like wildflowers,
grasping for the edge of tomorrow.

Now, you stand tall,
shoulders squared to the horizon,
ready to leap into the unknown,
and I can’t help but swell,
like a tide rising in the heart,
full of all the moments,
the laughter, the lessons,
the quiet nights spent building castles
from the moments of our lives.

There’s a bittersweet ache,
a tugging at the roots,
but pride blooms fierce and strong,
like a tree in full blossom,
each leaf a testament,
each branch a reminder
that I once held you,
and now you reach
for something more.

As you turn,
your smile a beacon,
I sense the deployment of your wings,
the flutter of your spirit
taking flight into the wild blue,
and I whisper a prayer to the wind,
for safe travels, for joy,
for the courage to chase
every wild dream
that dances just beyond the horizon.

In the distance,
I see you,
a silhouette against the sun,
and though you’re journeying out,
my heart carries with you,
a tether of love,
stronger than distance,
richer than all the words
I could ever say.

Letting Go

Just after the crack of dawn,
As the sun spills its golden light,
a suitcase stands by the door,
announcing the journey to come.

I watch, heart swelling—
each beat echoing years of laughter,
bicycle rides, scraped knees, soccer games,
the weight of dreams woven
into the fabric of this moment.

I see my son, now a man,
gazing forward into the horizon,
eyes bright with the promise of the unknown.

I remember the first steps,
the tentative dance of growing up,
and how each fall became a lesson
wrapped in a parental embrace.

With every reflection, pride unfurls
like a flag raised high against the sky—
an unspoken bond, strong and steady.

“Go,” I say, though the word is heavy,
a bittersweet weight upon the tongue.
“Explore, chase your dreams,
find your own rhythm in this world.”

In that command, there’s a surrender,
a release of the tether
that has held us so close.
Yet even if the distance stretches,
that link will never really fray,
only strengthen with each mile.

I fight the urge to pull you back,
to gather all the memories,
to pause the moment just once more;
but I know this is the course of life—
the letting go, the becoming,
a cycle as old as time itself.

Quarter Past

Billowing clouds snuff sun’s last flare;
Day breeze yields to twilight’s fury
Trees shake and swirling leaves fly,
Rain driving, pouring hard and cold.
Towns and farms bolt gates and doors
As children whimper, grownups shudder.
Heralded by heaven’s light, thunder’s crash,
Doc Time is called to dutiful round.
Harbinger of destiny, he practices his craft
On cobblestones made of bone and sweets.
Cries rise more piercing than the wolf’s,
Joy more exultant than a heavenly choir.
Old Aaron parted around midnight;
Reminiscence was born at quarter past.

We’ve Left Our Hearts

Special part of the American Dream –
Rags to riches, hero to crooner,
Cheek to cheek, body and soul –
You truly were no Tramp.

Your strains too dear to lose
Made us aware of our foolish hearts.
Though now glory of another day,
You will ever be under our skin.

Comeback kid, unique tone,
Civic champion, nice guy –
Your long, meaningful life showed
The best still remains to come.

That little cable car that nearly could,
Finally did.
Antonio, you’ve reached the stars!
Your golden voice will always resound for us …

Too Brief! Too Late!

The other day, at an evening soiree,
I met a rather mellow fellow
Which sparked a conversational colloquy
With more than the usual mutual commonalities:
How we knew the Hosts and Guests of Honor,
And that we shared the same Golden Age.
After fleeing the city of Broad Shoulders,
We both had entered the grinding Rat Race,
And later barely escaped the desiccating Valley of Silicon,
While finally attaining the Grand Order of the Grinder.
He muttered of some shuttered venture
But then beamed about country rides with his Lynne.
In turn, I brought up a personal project
About which he became truly intrigued:
Penning poetic paeans to folks famed and friendly
For their life-long gift of service and joy.
But that was that; the event had ended,
No time to learn more before a quick so long.
Now the news leaves me no means to make
A portrait of such a worthy and dear human being.
Rick, I’m riled. That was not the deal!
I was about to write your “On the Road”
Or was that “Born to be Mild”?

It was meant for you and your loved ones to view.
Rick, we demand a redo!

Expecting the end

I’m just doing my rounds in my taxi
To support my dear wife and four kids,
When rockets crash and a Renault is hit,
The occupants trapped and left to burn.
I ask myself, “Is this really happening?”
As dirt and debris start pouring down.
Am I next?

At the crossroads, we check papers,
A unit of nine, three rifles and a grenade.
Rumors fly of the enemy encroaching,
We ditch our arms and hide nearby.
If found, we need some sort of story;
We’re just day workers homeward bound.
Am I next?

Shortly we are surrounded, unable to flee.
Fearing to speak, we text our loved ones;
An hour later the enemy breaks in.
Fierce beatings and shouted questions,
Mobile phones and shoes all taken away,
Captured, down the street we are paraded.
Am I next?

Each has one hand on the belt of next;
Sweating, we’re lined up against a wall.
The guards pause, grin, and play,
Taunting and stoking our dismay.
Soon they grow bored and cranky,
Yelling, “What’ll we do with them now?”
Am I next?

I bid final goodbyes to my neighbors,
The last to my daughter’s godfather.
He runs for it but stumbles and falls,
Inciting the enemy to spray out their fire.
A sharp, sudden sensation bursts through
That I feel pierce and sear my insides.
Am I next?

They check the bodies to make sure
And shoot once more if any sign of life.
One exclaims, “That one’s still alive!”
Bleeding from the gash on my right,
I think they are talking about me;
I brace myself for the final blow.
Am I next?

My wound is agonizingly painful,
But crying out would mean my end.
For now, I must lie among the fallen.
And be as still as a stiff block of ice.
“Oh, he’ll die by himself!” He utters
As his shot strikes somebody else.
Am I next?

Silence, I sense they have departed;
The alleyway is now empty of life.
I risk a glance from under my jacket;
Then though with flash and thundering noise,
Shells explode and tremble the ground,
Cold, drained I barely can keep aware.
Am I next?

My wound has healed; summer arrived.
I have found refuge for my family,
Begun a new job; and we now live secure.
But especially at night, when a door slams,
It rouses memories of lost comrades,
The remorse of the one who survived.
How was I not next?

Un sentiment désagréable

J’ai souffert, je me suis efforcé
d’atténuer la douleur de la journée .
J’ai appris, j’ai prié pour trouver un moyen .
Car il y a eu trop de matins
où il semblait que mes rêves m’appelaient,
me demandant si ce pourrait être celui-là .
Mais mon âme lance un avertissement
à mon cœur lorsqu’il commence à craquer
pour tous les débuts laissés de côté .

Sinking Feeling

I’ve been paining, I’ve been straining
To allay the sting of the day.
I’ve been yearning, I’ve been learning
Praying to somehow find a way.
For there’s been too many a morning
When it seemed my dreams were calling,
Wondering whether this could be the one.
But my soul sings out a warning
To my heart when it starts falling
For all the beginnings left undone.

Forsaken

Memories crumble on the worn-down stones.
I do not see my abode from former days.
I only spy a crooked post.
I turn to the side, for the straight path is lost.
The yard is fully overgrown
And will never be walked again.
I’ve been away such a long time
That I do not know which way is which.
How sad and ugly the empty house is,
No smoke rising from the chimney.
I think of this house I’ve lived in all those years.
My breath catches, and I cannot speak.

Sense of Loss: A Plague Story*

We shared many meals on our journey
While we bantered about Martha Stewart
I think of that very last claret
When I sipped your kiss in the breeze

Can you still taste me?

Nurturing roses in a land of honey
We grew a bed of fragrance
My perfume serving as a reminder
Do you recall when you proposed

Can you still smell me?

Dancing in and out of covers
I felt your warmth in the March morn
But now blocked by cold glass
You are loved by me far off

Can you still feel me?

We listened to the bird’s joyous calls
And the beating rhythm of seasons
Now I can only play your favorite tune
While reaching you via a phone

Can you still hear me?

We built a castle of love
Adorning it with bright dreams
In a now devastated land
We are walled out by disease

Can you still see me?

*Composed so we will not forget the needless suffering brought about by the Trump administration.

Poisoning the Well

Words, sharp as broken glass,
scattered across the floor of every conversation,
we step on them, not noticing
until the bleeding starts.
Every silence speaks louder than the last,
its weight pressing against the chest,
like a promise that was never meant to be kept.

We don’t yell, we simmer—
a slow boil,
a low hum of discontent.
A question asked with the edge of a blade,
but wrapped in the velvet of a smile,
and passive like smoke,
it slips under the door and stains the air.

We say “fine,”
but our eyes betray us.
Their language is raw;
their truth is a widening chasm
we pretend we don’t see.

There are no answers, only echoes—
words that come back hollow,
bouncing off the walls of resentment.
We speak in riddles,
fingers pointing in every direction but our own,
hearts locked behind walls
built from miscommunications
and unspoken hurts.

We wear the armor of defensiveness
like a second skin.
Every attempt to reach
is met with an invisible barrier.
We love, we fight, we withdraw;
but we don’t listen.

And still we ask:
Why does it feel like we’re speaking in a language
neither understands?
Why does love sound like a war,
and kindness feel like a question
that cannot be answered?

In this quiet storm of words unspoken,
we forget
that sometimes the loudest thing in the room
is the silence between us—
the toxic quiet,
growing louder every time
we don’t say what we mean.

Rock the Boat

News about the project hit us, groggy,
like a tidal wave, – keeling us over.
He’d flake out again, the son of a gun,
leaving us all floundering,
at a loose end.

Cap, leading light of the team,
assessed the situation,
the cut of her jib posh perhaps,
but always decisive, pragmatic–
she knew the ropes.

“Time to wipe the slate,” she declared,
“Give him a wide berth, chart a new course.
The contract wasn’t all sewn up, anyway,
we need to batten down the hatches,
all hands on deck.”

But before we could react,
the client, a notorious loose cannon,
blew a gasket, threatened lawsuits,
yelling we’d have the devil to pay!

We were taken aback, caught between
the devil and the deep blue sea,
forced to choose between legal battles
and walking the financial plank.

This venture,
meant to finally make ends meet,
was turning into an albatross
around our necks.

The First Mate told us to pipe down,
tried to take the wind out of his sails
with legal jargon and promises of amends.
But the client was not on board,
threatened to lower the boom.

Our only option was to turn the ship around,
face the bitter end,
and hope for leniency.
Thus, we were dead in the water,
watching our dreams sink,
accepting it wouldn’t be plain sailing,
not now, not ever.

“Well,” he sighed,
offering a swig of something potent,
“Down the hatch.
Time to hit the deck,
and get on the right tack, again.”

Someone asked, as the crow flies,
how far back we were.
He just laughed, “Beyond the horizon.
Just start with a clean slate,
and try to keep on an even keel this time.”

Kabary

The ancestors have said

The scent of the forest is the scent of rosewood;
The scent of the earth, the scent of vanilla;
But we say that speech is the scent of the meeting.
The thin cow is the duty of the shepherd;
The chicken that does not crow, the duty of the farmer;
The speech, if disrespectful, is the duty of the speaker.

If you do not consider me to be a speaker,
Forgive me, I am just a daughter of my parents,
Standing here, not because of my pride or luxury,
But because there is no one elder left to speak.
This is a speech that has lost its name,
And is, in fact, not a speech at all.

Born was I here in these sacred, rolling hills.
Happily, I played along the nearby rice fields
Enjoying the customs of our village life.
But the rains were short and cicadas many.
Vary ran out, and vandals stole our zebu.
We barely had any work or much to eat.

My parents gathered us nine together; and
Though they regretted leaving the ancestors,
They decided to bring us from the countryside
To live in the town of a thousand towns.
I, who had no shoes to put on my feet,
Only brought two dresses and lamba.

We lived in Tana for thirty-some years
Making our living on the parent’s shoulders.
But we are now back here at the family tomb
To show respect to them and the ancestors.
This famadihana is of course very special.
My parents bones have lain here nigh 25 years.

Dear folks, as you listen to my meager words,
I will now with humility enter the family tomb.
I ask the kind indulgence of our forebears
To remove and clean my parents’ hallowed bones
And then re-wrap them in newly woven lamba,
So I may return them to their deserved rest.

Lastly, I ask again your forgiveness
For using your time to hear this poor speaker.
Join me today to honor my parents
As they become our newest ancestors.
May the Sweet Lord grant you the happiness
That my dear parents bestowed upon me.

– Kabary, a traditional, stylized speech given on special occasions in Madagascar, usually by a male elder.

Andersonville Cemetery

Outside the gate I regretfully stand
Late at the Andersonville marble field
As the setting sun breaks through the gentle Georgia rain
Petal by petal fall the mournful tears of mothers and children
The wails and cries, the blood and guts
The Sacred bones of young men lying a century long
Are scattered as peach blossoms on a field of stones
Reminders of what should never have been
Iron now blocks me from my brothers
I can only turn and go my way

The Choice

What forged you?
What special event?
Have you been
shaped in adversity?
The failures, losses?
Setbacks, defeats?
Is suffering a tool
in this earthly school?
Has the rug been
pulled from under you?
Done something
Wrong in a past life?
Is it all part of
the web of things?
Wonder why
you are here?
Or do you have the
joy of surviving and
relish the question:
If you had the chance,
would you do it
all over again?

The Search

Seeking the bright and ever fair
Is his sole goal for which to dare

So fine of form, and full of grace
Venus, Mary stand in second place

He once loved sin and chased the vile
Who else could make him change his style

Castles and foes threaten the way
But all opposed he vows to slay

Forth and then back he makes his quest
Ever pressing, he takes no rest

But Time, like comets, does not last
Has the chance for fulfillment passed

Fallen leaves scatter on the ground
Armor may rust before she’s found

The Flower

O Joyous Day!

Guest arrives at six

Hurry, rush to store, prepare a feast

Cook all day, clean the house

O Joyous Day!

Floor’s all swept, table’s set

O Joyous Day! But for one thing

A flower’s missing in the vase.

la aparición

en la serena noche de luna
cuando las rosas concentran su aroma
cruza en silencio una figura desnuda a oscuras
me recuerda los hermosos días
cuando frotan dos almas en un combate amoroso
y todo acaba y es eterno
esperando la aurora para volver a comenzar
no sé cómo buscarte dentro de mí
en medio de la noche me despierta tu sueño
distante y ya no tan próxima
mi pasado se convierta en el su futuro
te alza en brazos, se acerca
tu abrazo en otro abrazo
¿qué pasó? ¿qué hora es?

apparition

on a night serene with moonlight
when roses distill their scent
a figure unclad silently crosses the dark
reminding me of the beautiful days
when two souls wrestled in lovers’ combat
and everything ended and never ended
while waiting for dawn to start all over again
I don’t know how to seek you out inside me
in the night I wake to your dream
distant and no longer as close
my past has become his future
he lifts you up into his arms and closes in
your embrace in another’s embrace
what happened? what time is it?

© 1974, Kenneth Koziol. All rights reserved.

🙂

What is there better

What is there better for me,
what more to my advantage,
than to rip my soul from my body?
So wretched am I in my existence,
and so many stifling fears are there in my breast;
so despicable is my lot;
I care not for my future;
I have lost the hope
with which I used to comfort myself.
All places have I now rambled about,
and through each covert spot have I crawled along,
to seek my love with voice, eyes, ears,
that I might trace her out.
And still I find her nowhere,
nor have I yet determined whither to go,
nor where to seek her,
nor, in the meantime, do I find
any person to give me an answer,
of whom I might make inquiry.
No place, too, is there on earth
more solitary than are this sorry place.
And yet, if she still can be found,
never while I exist will I cease
before I am graced with her forgiveness.

War Is Not the Answer

I came to Paris to flee the war gods,
and their cynical words and cruelty,
each day viewing a decade of destruction
in the news from distant rice fields.

Tonkin Gulf, Tet Offensive, My Lai,
napalm and carpet bombing,
a naked child’s run down a road,
there were no good reasons for their lies.

As Nixon crows Hearts and Minds
and sprays Cambodia with Agent Orange,
some ask why so many have to die
while the war crawls on and goes nowhere.

Today began cold, wet, and gloomy
as I stand in front of the Hotel Majestic
encircled by Hanoi and Vietcong flags
and hard-nosed, head-bashing security.

First Madame Binh approaches
dressed up in a traditional Ao Dai,
then comes South Vietnam’s Lam
followed closely by the North’s Trinh.

Last in the solemn procession
is Secretary of State Rogers
hissed and jeered at by protestors
as his car warily nears.

There comes the signal of completion
followed by a rousing round of cheers
signaling that the fighting is over,
a futile conflict with nothing but loss.

But observing such a ruckus,
I feel alone at the curbside
only now fully realizing
the extent of my country’s defeat.

Born in Chicago

I was born in Chicago, 1952
I was born in Chicago in 1952
Well, my old friends told me
“Son, you’d better get outta town”

Well, my first cuz went down
When I was 17 years old
Oh, my first friend went down
When I was 17 years old
Well, there’s one thing I can say about that boy
Too young to go

Well, my second cuz went down
When I was 18 years of age
Oh, my second friend went down
When I was 18 years of age
Well, there’s one thing I can say about that boy
He gave us joy

Well, a close friend went down
When I was 21 years of age
Oh, my second friend went down
When I was 21 years of age
Well, there’s one thing I can say about that boy
He was no dud

Well, now rules are all right
If there’s someone left to play the game
Well, now rules are all right
If there’s someone left to play the game
All the young are gone now
Everything’s just don’t seem the same
Oh, things just don’t seem the same, oh no

RIP: Greg, Tommy, Tom

(1973)

I Love You Too Much

My heart aches and weakens
And can no longer bear
This distance that separates us

And my head smarts and swells
Afraid of the absence
And starting to despair

It’s my way of telling you
And always seeing the bad as worse
But take it with a smile

What I want to say, and I will say it
There’s no point in hiding it from you
I love you too much, and that’s true

Triangle of Sacrifice

The folded flag was presented that gray day with stiff formality,
symbol of service, of sacrifice, of a career spent beneath the waves—
and followed by the rifle volley,
a sharp, echoing salute to a silent warrior of the deep.

But it was the faces, the bewildered faces,
that etched themselves indelibly into my memory.
My cousins, all three of similar age to myself,
bearing the fullness of childhood innocence,
their eyes wide with confusion,
their mouths drawn tight.

And their mother, my aunt, a stoic matriarch,
her face a mask of controlled grief,
her hands trembling slightly as she accepted the flag,
the final vestige of her husband’s life.

I saw in their faces a dawning awareness,
a slow, agonizing realization of the finality of death,
the irreversible absence,
the gaping hole in their family fabric.

It wasn’t just the loss of a husband, of a father, of an uncle;
it was the loss of a future, of shared memories,
of yet spoken words, of enduring connection—
a hard lesson learned, not in some book or sermon,
but in the silent language of searching faces,
at a military burial for a noble submariner,
lost to the depths of eternity.