Having Given Thanks

Having given thanks,
i rise toward my obligations
unaware of their weight

send orisons
hosannahs
to the four corners of the compass
whence dwells the All

And save some small part
Of my shattered self
For the days that will be:

i must rise in all directions,
Even downward:
i will not rest
Until all have given thanks
For All . . .

--Mr. Gobley

The Gift of the Dying

The gift of the dying
Is their knowing.

The dying know it all
But only their eyes say so.

And what they say is this:

Go. Live. Sing.
Pray for me,
But don't spend all day on it.

Outside, the world
Is growing accustomed
To my absence,
And being ceaselessly amazed
At the arrivals,
Raw from their journey and,
Like you, shocked
At being torn away.

Turn your attention to me,
Ever so briefly,
Say the dying,

So that the fierce forward-leaning
Nowness
Of life
Can shock you anew,

And build your resolve
To call out to the cosmos
With all the devoted desperation

Of your borrowed soul.

Go,
Say the dying with their fluttering eyes.
Go, but don't leave me.
Come back,
So i can see what coming back is like,
Once more,

And so that you may remember
That in coming back,
You are practiced
In the art that i learn even now:
The art
Of going
Home.

--Mr. Gobley