Writing Clerical 04

David Lee Sevedge

August 25, 1946 ~ October 28, 2019 (age 73)


David Lee Sevedge, cherished husband of Donita Sevedge, called home October 28, lived a full and varied life dedicated to beauty. As H. Home, poet extraordinaire, he wrote and leaves to posterity hundreds of immortal poems. As Happy Home, he composed his own beautiful, etherial music. As a dedicated autodidact, he found every kind of inspiration for his art through his insatiable pursuit of all avenues of knowledge and the discovery and appreciation of the works of other artists from ancient to modern. He will be sorely missed by those who knew him but who can take solace in the poetry and memories he left behind.

Plans are underway for a family graveside gathering followed by a Celebration of Life for all who wish to attend in the new year. The dates and locations will be posted here.



The Bride

As men engender their own ends within, 
Selfsame, & shrift themselves unprofited 
By whatever world is or yet may be:
So much are they fire, ascendant
A space like fire; phoenix sometimes 
The lowliest to a better himself, but last? 
A space, half a life, moiety or tithe,
What is there diskins them?, they are same, same 
And nay nor hallelujah, curse nor bribe
May except them one from th’other, 
Or disembrace them ever.

They are fire so much, living, and death then 
Is water, is it? Say our God’s strays so, 
What prophet at his own cost hath it Writ, 
Chapter and verse what is their number?
(No matter, at best they but unkennel dogmas 
To sic down men’s hearts); water everwheres 
Heavenmost reaches and nethermost dusts, 
Ours, all else’s, as death does:
What between them but a name, name only  ⎯⎯
Water thrives, overthrives everywhere, death likewise  ⎯⎯
Why death now is liveliest, livelier 
Than what he kills, being everywhere
At once and nowhere stayed or held, or beheld 
Time enough to cipher his feature, or hers, 
Whoever death is. . . like a waremonger he ways 
This wayside world, finds the trueing amiss,
And rests his palmdown on the too-light side, 
Seeking all’s⎯⎯our⎯⎯levelling,
Thereby evening, sameing, o-ing all.

But that is the worst, we are better than that,
To be samed, summed, brothered with the dirt again ⎯⎯
Are we stuff to fodder a sateless something 
So long as God may remember 
Everalways was beneath us?
My God, no wonder we go to our own death 
As to a funeral, a beloved’s,
A funeral of everyone our beloveds
Goldly hoarded throughout once too many a life. . . 
If death then is water, would we were dustless
Or were more himalay in our mass’d mote 
Or were half so wise as dust is
That kens not to yield is not possible, instead 
Yields bridegroom-readily, in tenth a trice 
Husbands water and is abedding
Before Panprescience could utter a bless, 
And, being lost in her turns her half to himself 
So wholly none witness could divine or say 
This is the better, this the worse.

© H. Home, The Elegist


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