Mourning a Luddite Friend

In memory of Vincent Jubilee

Grief is a highwayman Hiding in the forest. It hangs from the pages Of a book we shared, Only to flutter and fall, Unexpected and unbidden, Each time I open it.

It is the absent figure in the groves Of Bazillec’s Scène d’été. It is a shadow on the rocks of Eakins’ Swimming Hole. It is in the memory Of the introspection Art inspired in us.

It hides among the words That flowed precisely and so often From his perfect pen. We only wrote, we rarely talked; For years we didn’t see each other. The cord that tangled us Was woven from My poetry and prose.

He was my Luddite friend Who eschewed technology, His only medium, the US Mail. A friend and beta reader both, Ruthless in his praise and criticism, Perfect in his choice of words, Precise, correct, and very rarely wrong.

Grief is not a thief — It bears time’s great elixir. It is a Robin Hood That barters tears For memories And shoots arrows of gratitude aeonian.

Note: All of Ronald C. Flores-Gunkle’s poetry in Medium publications is collected HERE.