A gush of letters after the passing of Robert Creeley

The Finality of It

It's shocking in a way only when it happens.
How it just stops
unchangeable as time moves on

.
My inbox is empty
That hurts more than it ever will
The regret avalanche
- - - - - - and that roar resonates its
- - - - - - first echoes at the bottom
- - - - - - first of my chest,
- - - - - - - - - deep where I first began.

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It makes me just want to be Christian
so that I could have a chance of meeting with him again.
What a beautiful part of the religion

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I will visit, or, attend his funeral,
and if that is not welcome or convenient for relations,
then I will visit his resting place
sometime and burn the unread letter
I have so it will go to the sky.

That is also a beautiful part of the (other) religion. How fire consumes so metaphorically before our eyes so whatever it is goes where it needs. Letting go; the thing is gone and flakes fo ash blow to the sky.

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There's so much that must be read
so he can reflect upon it.
The things I wish were said so I
could grow from it--
that's what you lived
for as a teacher, isn't it?

I have not learned enough from you! You must have had mentors/role models/admirees/fathers whom led you to your entitled fill as a son--I might know some of them, you taught me--but I'm not done with you yet!
Oh please, God,
its wrong of you as far as I can know, of it to have been done so.

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My Condolences to Your family, friends, lifetime's loves and relations

As I brush my teeth
and look to the mirror--
it's such a reflective,
solitary moment--
every second is a step
in and of this sad day, away
from that last step, somewhere moving behind

I've lost step, I
falter, as one has said today,
and I cry inside in a manner I've never before for
your loss, the ending of our
together existence on the surface of this world.

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Dear Professor Creeley

You taught me something here on the day of your passing: the meaning and lifetime of poetry, its soul.

Poetry--it's a language of mortality to Heaven. It speaks in human form, one-way, to God, the air of afterlife, to the immortal man in the mirror. His ears are wide as a well, and poets pour into, down it, for what will use it. This well, unlike any other, finally, for once, is bottomless, and the water's usage and whereablouts are any body's guess, until one's on the other side. Where does it go? and it keeps filling with the voices of soul, the natures of human, and as any letter of weight sent, I hope the answer's this gets to you.

, , , , , , , , , , , Best eternal regards,
, , , , , , , , , , , Highest respect,
, , , , , , , , , , , Deepest loves from a forever student,
, , , , , , , , , , , , , Abe