Blue is the Color of Death

How long did I journey to find
these bright eternal pastures of green?
I have walked for miles without rest.

I carry talismans from the river:
Lincoln penny, Kennedy half dollar.
Blue is the color of death.

Carry also the traditional scars —
pale thin lines snaking from elbow to wrist —
I have walked for miles without rest.

The journey circles: a line of stones is the measure
from my father's house to my father's grave.
Blue is the color of death.

Blue eyes sealed beneath foreign coin;
blue sky sliced by telephone lines.
I have walked for miles without rest.

Upon the border stand invisible —
red morning cleansing the night —
I have walked for miles without rest
and blue is the color of death.
 3rd draft, Sept. '93

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This is one of a small group of poems concerning the death of my father. I've often considered collecting them into a mini-chapbook, which would be a sub-division of Saturn Sequence (my electronic chapbook). It's been a while since I've counted all the poems in this series, but I would guess around ten. That's why I refer to it as a mini-chapbook. And I couldn't swear that all the poems are really worth preserving.

Actually, there is already a poem from this series under "Selected Other Poems" on that page — "Death of the Father". So, the question is whether I want to add this one and others.

Anyway, this poem came a little over a year after Padre passed away (Jan. 1992). The first line came to me as I was mowing the back yard. And it was reinforced when I took a shower after the mowing, and was still seeing images of the grass whenever I closed my eyes. My wife and I had a rather large back yard, and it took me about two hours to mow it and the front yard. But I liked mowing, because it gave me time to myself to just think. The sound of the mower is a sort of white noise, and your thoughts can drift as they will. I also like mowing because it's easy to see what one is accomplishing. It's a sort of immediate gratification, in that way.

One of the things Padre taught me about mowing was to do it in circles, with the thrower pointed toward the unmown portion of the lawn — this was a form of mulching. So, after walking in circles for two hours, I probably felt like I had walked for miles without rest.

The other repetend — "Blue is the color of death" — was inspired by an anthropology text. On the cover of this book was a Zaire boy of the Kota with his face painted blue. According to the note on the back cover, this was part of the rite of passage; the boy's face was painted blue, the color of death, to symbolize the death of childhood, so he may make the transition to adulthood.

As I type this, I remember a time Padre turned blue. This happened 10-15 years before he died. Padre was an aspirin addict, you see. According to the doctors at the time, there is a chemical in aspirin that binds to the oxygen cells in a person's blood stream. For most people, it just washes out. Padre had taken so much that his body didn't have a chance to wash it out — the chemical was cutting off his oxygen supply. And before you correct my science, I will say my information is third hand.

I wonder whether these poems really are worth collecting. Does this one speak to you? Do you wonder at the line "Carry the traditional scars"? Well, it is a personal symbol, as are the Lincoln penny and the Kennedy half dollar. Do those personal symbols muddy the water so much you don't care? Or does the mystery make the poem as intriguing to you as a L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E poem?