Wednesday, May 28, 2014

Maya Angelou, RIP

Maya Angelou has died.

 Ailey, Baldwin, Floyd, Killens, and Mayfield
by Maya Angelou

When great trees fall,
rocks on distant hills shudder,
lions hunker down,
in tall grasses,
and even elephants
lumber after safety.

When great trees fall
in forests,
small things recoil in silence,
their senses
eroded beyond fear.

When great souls die,
the air around us becomes
light, rare, sterile.
We breathe briefly.
Our eyes, briefly,
see with 
a hurtful clarity.
Our memory, suddenly sharpened,
gnaws on kind words
promised walks
never taken.

Great souls die and
our reality, bound to
them, takes leave of us.
Our souls,
dependent upon their
now shrink, wizened.
Our minds, formed
and informed by their
fall away.
We are now so much maddened
as reduced to the unutterable ignorance
of dark, cold

And when great souls die,
after a period peace blooms,
slowly and always
irregularly.  Spaces fill
with a kind of
soothing electric vibration.
Our senses, restored, never
to be the same, whisper to us.
They existed.  They existed.
We can be.  Be and be
better. For they existed.