The Old Ones are all gone now –
the titans, the gods,
Our parents, our heroes –
those we anchored our lives on,
are gone, drifting sweetly
like smoke into the night.

Light incense before the moon.
Offer prayers to the old
silent gods, those who left us here.
We will not pass this way again
to gather memories in a
basket with ribbons and bows.

Gaping spaces open up
in their passing which cannot
be filled, ever.
We drink a toast with bitter liquor
and our lament goes unheard.
It is a passing, silent and cool.

I feel the drifting of my soul,
unmoored now from anything
that I could call familiar.
Nothing solid is left to be held,
no place I might call “home,”
I remember them with salty tears.



Syd Weedon
9/8/2022