After I'm Gone

After I’m Gone

photography by / Mecuro B. Cotto

 

what’s to become of them

after i’m gone,

this cache  of poetry

with pages formatted and leather bound

that are the very breath of me

the breadth of who i am.

 

for all that i am

in the realm of this existence

lies here

upon these embossed pages

titled, versed and dated

through the vestige of time.

 

what’s to become of them

after  i’m gone,

when my voice is silenced

by the abyss of death

in the wake of seasons

that have nurtured me well.

 

after all that i am

returns to dust,

lamenting in the benediction

of a prayer.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Reviews

[Linda Marie Van Tassell]

This is beautiful, Kelly, questions that I have often thought of myself. All of my poems are handwritten in leather books, signed, dated, and timed. I have no children and no family to bequeath them to. I imagine after I'm gone, they will be tossed into a trash bin somewhere, never read and never known. My only way to let them breathe is in the here and now, here in this forum, shared with the ether.

[Kelly Scheppers]

I feel for your situation, Linda. Having no family to bequeath your extraordinary work to. It is only the here and now that we worry of things like this. After we pass, there will be no earthly chores to ponder...we will be free of such trivial things. I'm beginning to think it may all be left to a dear friend of mine. Time will tell, I suppose. Thank you so much for this lovely review!

[Julian]

Like the sand mandalas of the Tibetan monks, or the sand drawing of the Dine ( Navajo) so many incredible works are here for a time and then gone with no trace, except the memory of those who were blessed to experience them in their appointed time.

[keith]

all these thoughtful words sans noise
difficult to write about what might become of our legacy (leftovers from some of us HA!)
articulated in soft tone respectfully done
we all wonder at times what is to become?

the words we chose and used were on loan from common languages and repaired refunctioned re-expressed and reclaimed by others for their purposes leaving those you chose to remain as they are ... within

great expression on a personal note

[Kelly Scheppers]

Many thanks, Keith!

[Relic]

My relatives don't know I write. Mine will sit here after I'm gone while people might wonder when I'll post again.

Think Ed Hart, Marie...and others. Their words still sit on their pages.

[Kelly Scheppers]

Perhaps it's a good thing, that they are still here in some capacity. Thank you, Tim!

[Dr. YumnaKay]

I've often wondered about it myself. The only comfort I give myself is to think of Anne Frank, whose works were found after her death. I've come to believe it's what's the fate of poets is. Long shot, but maybe that'll happen with me too.

A woman can dream :D

Lovely reading you, as always, Kelly.

[Kelly Scheppers]

Although our earthly bounds will no longer be tied to us after we've passed on, we all wish to be remembered in some capacity. Thank you for your presence today, Yumna. It's good to see you!

[Richard M]

I love this poem Kelly. I'm sure this is the question of every artist, which ever medium. I love the wording and your describing. One for the library please.
Take care my friend.
Richard

[Kelly Scheppers]

Thank you most kindly, Richard!

[Aura]

That is a question I've pondered. I usually keep my poetry on file on my computer, but if I pass away, will they be deleted? Gone? It's a depressing thought because I love writing, and these poems might not reach a wide audience and may just disappear. Though I guess poetry could live on through how we share them, if we share them. Do the words evaporate when we perish? Through works of Poe or Shakespeare, I guess they don't. You've written a thought provoking piece Kelly, I enjoyed reading. Thanks for sharing!

[Kelly Scheppers]

Thank you most kindly, Aura. It seems I have given cause for many here to ponder my dilemma as well!

[Vol]

Kelly,
I think you have important insights and things to tell us. I wonder the same thing. I am a lover of literature and it has been the core of my education, studies and teaching. I know the real thing when I see it. I have a professor friend wo once told me, "you know, Vol, we are the last literary generation." and that makes me wonder why I even try There was a time when folks who had an education and access to poetry would grab a volume to sit and read in the evening; a poem or two was a lot of mental/spiritual food to digest, and that's what they did. With the decline of intellectualism and critical thinking in western culture, no one has the time or desire. In my lifetime, I watched Robert Frost read at JFK's inauguration, and little worth mentioning sdince then, except GWB's reading some Dr. Seuss rhyme scheme s**t. And I'm sorry, but Maya Angelou's attempts atwriting are pitiful at best.Here's John Keats answer:
When I have Fears That I May Cease to Be
BY JOHN KEATS
When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain,
Before high-pilèd books, in charactery,
Hold like rich garners the full ripened grain;
When I behold, upon the night’s starred face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love—then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.
Vol

[Kelly Scheppers]

Your profound insight and offering of Keat's most eloquent poem are exquisite , Vol, and left me deeply moved. His words speak to me, after a hundred plus years since his passing. How is it possible to touch someone to that extreme, through that extent and distance of time? I thank you, immeasurable, for this review. It overwhelms my heart!

[Vol]

Blush.....

[Vol]

A Beat Poet friend of mine, Lizzie Tanner, died of a stroke one week after giving me all her poetry from the fifties to the tens and a bottle of Jack Daniels, "Here, Vol, I'm giving you all my alcohol, I won't be needing it." I wish I knew what to do with all of it, but the truth is, I don't know what to do with my own. I have no idea where or how to submit, other than here. The last professor I had taught "Modern Poetry," and was leaving because nobody reads poetry any more. I'm seventy-four years old, not ready to die, but worried about, as you so beautifully say,
"that are the very breath of me
the breadth of who i am.
Vol

[Michelle N. H.]

It's always scary when something that has great value to us could possibly be viewed as meaningless in another's eyes and be thrown away. It feels personal, but it's the way of life. We're only here for a short time and likewise typically is the material we leave behind. If we're lucky, someone views our "cache of poetry" to be near as valuable as they were to us. Perhaps they'll take something from it, and maybe keep it living for a while. If not, it really is okay to let go, and that goes for all things, because it's natural. Who we really are lives on in memories, spirit and blood.. Very well written poem about the fear of mortality.

[Miss Sharon]

I've often wondered this same thing. My family...not being poetry fans, will most likely just discard them as though they are "just words" when in fact, they ARE me. Nice write my friend. ~Sharon

[Kelly Scheppers]

My family is much the same. It still weighs heavy on my mind, though it will be out of my hands when it happens. That's one of the consolations about the here-after. No more earthly ties to bind us. Not planning to go any time soon, mind you! Thank you, Sharon!

[Lisasview]

Yes, what is to become of all our poems...our thoughts... who will find them who will care..
I do like the way this was written and the image is divine...
Lisa, in Spain

[Kelly Scheppers]

Thank you most kindly, Lisa. And how is Spain on this most glorious summer day?

[Lisasview]

Just started getting hot 80's a coupe of days ago... Right now I can hear the roosters and the birds... a bit cooler this time in th morning.. really is paradise