27 Dec 2012: two poems

On His Illness

A thing I have will not be appeased-
A weary time I’ve had of it, cold journeys-
I sleep on my ancient bed, stinking but pleased
Neglect I my affairs from more than one gurney.
Preferring instead to return to child in da hood
Amaz’d to watch the penetrated sky
Privilege of the blessed troop of the good
As the unseen sun transits before now’s why
Through and through a weariness new,
A welcome to the reality of old age,
I now transit with a walking stick and rue
Making danserie out of what you know is rage
Ah I topped the hill in ’86 and nobunny cared
But I did it that which I solitary, dared.
Then I was out of your league in a town of one
Now even more alone, and it’s not fun.
But remember, remember the sun.

Edward G. Nilges (c) 12-27-2012. Moral Rights Asserted

On the Death of His Son


I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father died

Shakespeare, Hamlet 4:5

Aleph. Incipit Lamentationem Jeremiae Prophetae.

Lamentations 1:1

His little life is gone away!
His milk and tea and mother’s fuss
His many questions, directed at both of us
[His Mom grew weary of them
But I never did. They were good: he was good.]
But he is worth a Tallis, he is worth a Victoria,
Colliding masses of sound on my iPod Victrola
Where I again, and again, and again,
Try to make sense of this.
Yeh Rue Sa Lem, Yeh Rue Sa Lem,
Convertare ad Dominum Deum Tuum.
Suicidons-nous? Moi?
C’est contre la Loi

And so in a wasteland I am left, sick and sad
Wondering what ever it was that ever made me glad.

Wondering how to mourn.

Yeh Rue, Salem…Yeh Rue.
Say yes to flowers of the dead of which I believe the rue is one
Say yes to another morning another day
For his little life is gone away.
And there is no closure and no revenge, who the hell is at fault?
His Mom? Yeah (rue sa lem) let’s blame da mama and feel all right.
Fact is she grew thin watching him ill
And taking him back year after year,
And thassa Fact, jack, so shed her a tear.

Hell’s bells, shed us all a tear.
Go to some place of the sound of water
And let fly. Then, put the tears in crystal box
(Only a bob or two I promise you)
And stack it with d’autres.
It shall be for you a Mitzvot.

Myself? Oh yeah, it’s not as if I didnae work and pay.
So once again I say it comes down to this,
Say yes to another morning another day
For his little life is gone away.


He is gone from me now
And I am laid low
In a hospital in China
Of incurable cancer. Stage four, baby, stage four.
Whereupon the Father here shall rejoice
And dance the Eagle Rock.
Praying for his son now, and at the hour of his death.


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