When I learned that Ken Kesey had died, I wrote a poem and sent it along, which Ken Babbs was gracious enough to acknowledge and say he liked.
Riding Point
Kesey’s son went over
in a cosmic instant, in a car wreck,
and later Kesey sent a book
“to Jed, across the river
riding point.” I always liked
what that showed he knew:
that death is change, not end;
that Jed remained himself,
if also something more; that
all our trails cross a river.
Yesterday, perhaps they met
and shared a fire, and coffee,
and, Kesey still being Kesey,
perhaps some hash. It’s dusty work,
riding drag; good to change over
and finally ride in,
across the river
– Ken Kesey died November 10, 2001