Poems About Aging, Death, and Music by Richard LeDue

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The Whereabouts of the Soul

Brahms composed
some of his best stuff
because of unrequited love,
broken friendships,
and large amounts of wine and beer,
which just further proves to me
that good mental health is for those
who only spent a past life or thirteen
mucking through art (either finally
rejecting a lifetime of rejection
on their deathbed
or finding the sort of success
that’s only immortal to mortal
and made of the most
overcrowded loneliness),
so they were reborn to worry
about a sensible night’s sleep-
blind to how it all is
like a wake
no one showed up to.

~~

Communing

Sipping black coffee at 9:12 AM
on a Sunday, hearing spirits dance
in some Brahms,
although he would never know
church bake sales could save
someone’s soul at the cost
of high cholesterol,
only to switch to Bach,
who dedicated all his music
to God with such certainty
that it does make a silent room
seem less quiet,
even if just for the few moments
it takes to realize you’re humming.

~~

Another Largo of Sorts

Vivaldi knew old age
was a sore back and stiff neck
on a winter morning,
when the footprints in the snow
always seemed to be going
in the wrong direction,
but at least they belonged
to someone else.

~~

Content With Crawling

Some days my hope is a butterfly
flapping in unison with classical music,
yet dreading boredom,
exciting children, who might capture it
and tears its wings off,
while other times it’s more
of the opposite of metamorphosis,
devolving into a caterpillar:
content with crawling slowly,
as too much of the world
races towards an ending
that never needed flight to crash.

~~

Sober

Another night of decaf coffee
painting my insides black
and a cello telling me
of a dead man being
a little less dead,
and I try to lie to myself
that if I was drunk enough,
I would cut open the secrets
to all art like it was a fresh onion,
but because I’m of a more sober mind,
I stare into the same nothingness
as everyone else,
except accepting death
is blind, deaf, unfeeling,
has no nose nor stomach,
yet is a better artist than most.

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