All Souls Day

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The Dead
by Susan Mitchell

At night the dead come down to the river to drink.
They unburden themselves of their fears,
their worries for us. They take out the old photographs.
They pat the lines in our hands and tell our futures,
which are cracked and yellow.
Some dead find their way to our houses.
They go up to the attics.
They read the letters they sent us, insatiable
for signs of their love.
They tell each other stories.
They make so much noise
they wake us
as they did when we were children and they stayed up
drinking all night in the kitchen.




Kyrie from the Requiem Mass by Tomas Luis de Victoria and performed by the Tallis Scholars(reallocated from the ConcordPastor--thank you!)

Comments

  1. LydiaNovember 3, 2008 at 1:02 AM

    How wonderful it is leaving my comment while the Kyrie plays. I really needed this tonight - have been nuts and hyper all day - so thank you, my friend for a richly peaceful post.

    ReplyDelete
  2. La FraméricaineNovember 3, 2008 at 6:06 AM

    Dear Distracted,

    I like the idea of the dead caressing my photo and looking for signs in old letters. That's been my hobby for so long. Longer than French. It's nice to know that I'm not alone.

    If time and energy permit, I left you some graffitti and an invitation to play "6 Random Things" at my place.

    Naturally, no pressure to play anytime soon, or ever, but the invitation is open.

    ReplyDelete
  3. RudeeNovember 3, 2008 at 7:41 AM

    That picture is beautiful. I do like to believe that this place on earth is just a stopover to another. I'd also like to believe we can come back to visit.

    ReplyDelete
  4. AnonymousNovember 3, 2008 at 6:09 PM

    There is a part of me that waits and expects to be visited by spirits of those I've loved and lost. It has never happened for me. This summer I was visiting a relative, who told me of being visited by my late sister's presence when he was holding one of my nieces, an infant in his arms. He felt my sister's presence just appear, just sensed her there (no visual) in a profound way, sensed her "visiting" the baby. When she left there was a rush of cold air, the wind chimes went crazy and the grandfather clock in the room began inexplicably gonging.

    Years ago, when I was a teen, I was visited by the spirit of a friend who lived far away. I've never forgotten that presence, but never experienced it again.

    ReplyDelete
  5. Di MackeyNovember 6, 2008 at 1:58 PM

    You find beautiful poems. I loved this one, the last 4 lines made me smile and put me in touch with a delicious memory from my childhood.

    Thank you.

    ReplyDelete

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Hey, thanks for your thoughts and your time:>)

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