“It’s more about

her death than her

life.” That’s a critical

review to remember

when one reads the following.

But a critical observation

is that “Yes, there is a

strident ‘status-quo’ which

casts an unapproving eye on

all artistic offerings. And,

there are spouses who

sometimes don’t treat their

partners as they should.”

Nonetheless, the poet knows

how the common and mundane,

seasoned by the gilded

possibility of poetic inspection,

can become all they ever

possibly may have become

And all components found

within them are game

to a poet’s analysis, that

is, the great ones, such

as you, break down

all tenets of beauty,

ugliness, lacking, excess,

and functionality existent

as verifiable pieces of every

thing real or supposed,

living or inanimate, and,

in one way or another

helpful or detrimental to

mankind, and then present

all truths concerning those

to a public which may or

may not accept them

as actual or sanction

creative explanations, postulations,

and theories about them

Long ago I was warned

several times not to read

what you’d written;

but of course in matters

of word crafting, mere

users of perhaps a somewhat

abstract type of prose/poetry,

owning talents far inferior

to those possessed by the

great masters of artful expression,

really have little to lose

through exposure to what

those masters have written,

except most likely to say

“Gee, I wish

I could write like that.”

“Her tone is too dark” some

said. And others added

that your gifts and abilities

put those of lesser

creative expression to shame

And I won’t lie

and say that when I

encounter your words I

can’t process them

without wishing

your life’s sojourn

might have ended

better for you – and

lasted longer!

And I can’t sanction

the taking of one’s own life

it seems invalid

across the entire

gamut of possible human

characteristics. Beautiful

creators shouldn’t do it,

nor should anyone who

may find him or herself

at any certain troubled point;

but, we grieve its

occurrence, and we’re left to

guess if we shared in its

false justification

Thus, who gives this woman

daily into a union

of past insightful words and

future hopeful illumination?

It must be someone

far less talented who

saw her name and

in response

attempted to rekindle

embers from the torch

that had been her flame

But whether his or her

words found a front or

back page, shouldn’t the

poet have hoped they’d

displayed a helpful communication?

Apparently not always

said social lights, who often

wished to discard or disregard

artful rights, and toss

to oblivion claims

to fame made by

the truly exceptional, though

even they at their end may

have succumbed to weakness

or self-pity.

And I dare not say

for certain, yet am

supposing topics

very varied found their

truth in your presentation,

but only if you first

deemed them worthy

of such exposure

And I believe, it’s

because of your

ability to reconstitute,

or shed in new light

what common eyes see,

that your presence

is still sought so

by those who love you

and your words

Sylvia, you went away

too soon – too soon to learn

of the sixties tragedies, or

the seventies phoniness, or

the eighties ridiculousness, or

the nineties fear of a

new millennium to come

But yours was the ability

to display and explain

morbid and lonely days

such as those on which

a foreboding

of all that lies ahead

is revealed to those

of us who fear

those who invade

our homeland

from our south

And today, why does

the man with pen in hand

say little about your

actual achievements in poetics?

It must be because

he’s woefully lacking

in the gifts you were granted,

and, he fears

he’ll say too much

and jeopardize the aid which,

in times of paranoia he receives

from you and certain others

somewhat like you who,

if in no other respect,

share with you the fact

that they left

their earthly home

far sooner than they should have

But asking you to remove

your head from that oven

would be as futile I suppose,

as would be warning others

of talents similar to, or at

least approaching yours to

be aware of impending gunshots,

airplane crashes, and

drug and/or alcohol overdoses

or over consumptions

And guesses and reportages

of manmade tragedies

are often threadbare,

hanging there in

unenlightened rooms where

great mortals died,

and where great masters of art were perhaps

first attracted to individuals who,

though perhaps creative equals,

proved to be of far less

integrity when it came

to simply loving those

who loved them