Lines Within The Lines Poem by Frank Avon

'What do I love
more than life itself? '
This is the question,
time and again,
that I ask myself.
I guess I'm obsessed.
It crosses my mind
whether I want it to
or not, interrupting
whatever my thought.
Resist, I cannot.
Reject it, I cannot.
What does it mean?
How can I answer?
I am possessed.

What would I die for?
Many are the answers
to that, more than I can list:

Beth, our five children,
their children, their health,
that they could lead
the life I've led, could have
the same happiness. Yes,
I would die for that.

But what do I love more
than life. They are my life -
what I love, past, present,
and to come: God is love,
I've always heard, but I
would say, Life is love,
and God, the Giver of life.
Providence. What I love
is this life itself:

these cherished ones,
the hills and green of Tennessee,
the college where I became
who I am, where Beth
and I met, my peers there
and mentors, surrogate
parents, all my life;
poets I've taught, books
I've treasured, music
that lifts me up, heroes,
second selves, what I
experience vicariously,
daydreams, work I've done,
words I write and
texts I edit, basketball,
April, politics, the solstices,
wonder and wisdom,
tenderness and ecstasy,
quiet meditation, days
of rest, good food and wine,
lying in the sunshine
at Crescent Beach or on our deck.
Love is life, the life I love.

Oh, there have been deaths,
and life afterwards:
the alien years of childhood
when I was an outsider,
teased, bullied, called names
I dare not repeat, try not
to recall, but I survived;
illnesses and pain,
weaknesses and strain,
but I survived;
disappointment and disillusion
that I survived.
Little failures are little deaths
that one survives.
lives we didn't lead;
regrets, neglect
that cannot be forgiven,
but one closes one's eyes
to survive.
Departing is dying, going away,
and there is no third day:
if you return, it's not the same.
Ask Lazarus; ask those who've died.

Of consciousness,
sleep is a death;
and bad dreams are
the flames of hell,
suffered in the flesh,
in subconsciousness,
but each night I survive.
Each day I wake
to life anew:

I sip my tea,
I smell my roses,
I yell for my team,
I hear rhapsodies,
I walk the woods,
I wade a creek,
I drive my Grand Marquis,
I play solitaire till I win,
I work crosswords
at least once a day,
I eat hot buttered biscuits
and blackberry jam.
I pray.
I fondle the pages
of a brand new book,
or of an old book,
long unopened.
I warm myself by her body.
When she's far away,
I talk to her anyway.
Oh, yes, I am alive;
I survive.

The question I can't help
asking myself, answers
itself. To love is to live.
To live - to be yourself -
is to love. Like the stream

I go wading in, I'm always
changing, always the same.

Life abundant,
life eternal,
life to be lived
every moment.

Five smooth stones
enliven my fingers;
leaves I press
in a dictionary
remain wordless
but refresh my spirit;
her voice, her eyes, her hair
are with me everywhere.

Poetry is 'little lines
of sportive word run wild.'
I exercise my mind
to read within the lines.

What do I love
more than life itself?
Why, life itself, of course,
life after death.
day after day,
Every day is heaven;
every moment lived,
forever.

I am alive.

I am alive!

I am

alive....