What Has Been

Photo: © Deepdesert | Dreamstime.com – Ghost Of Route 66 Photo

Much like what has been, I’m now deserted;
The forgotten past, the here-and-gone —
And what claims I might have once asserted
Find no soul to rest a claim upon

Like a voice that cries when winds are wailing,
I have not been heard, nor will I be:
It is nothing, just a human failing —
Chalk it all up to
Mortality

The Last Small Shred of Truth

She looked all through her house, but couldn’t find,
The thing that she had lost, but didn’t know:
That last small shred of truth, a piece of mind,
Or peace of mind, she lost so long ago…

She looked all through her house, but couldn’t find,
The thing that she had lost, but didn’t know:
That last small shred of truth, a piece of mind,
Or peace of mind, she lost so long ago

She walked out to the sound of marching bands,
The wild reveling was in full force;
The oh-so-sure were locked and holding hands,
Implacable and set upon their course

She searched the streets to find smallest trace,
That maybe that one shred had come to rest:
But with each tromping foot and eager face,
She knew that it must finally be confessed

That maybe truth has had its final day —
The last small shred of truth
She’d thrown away

World Astounding

I would like to sing your song,
But you have to teach me –

I would like to sing your song,
But you have to teach me –
I would like to know your world;
Use your words, and reach me

Let me read the secret pages
Of your hidden days;
Lead me down the paths of wonder,
Set my heart ablaze

I would like to know your story,
Read to me your book:
Lift the covers of your life, and
Let me take a look

Teach me now the words and music,
Let me sing your song;
Show to me your world astounding
Let me tag
Along

Mental Picture

Note: the following thoughts are devoid of anything like wisdom.

(Note: the following thoughts are devoid of anything like wisdom. – Owen)

I read her words of life and lust:
This is the picture in my mind.
Although I checked her “about” page
And she looks more like a librarian…

Not that there’s anything bad in that.
I dated a librarian once – she was wild –
But writing personas can be so strong,
And create such an image,
It’s hard to live up to

But which is the real us, anyway?
The us in words, the creation of our minds and spirits,
Or the us in pictures, subject to the conventional
Expectations of our childhoods?

I don’t know, but I say
This is what she looks like.

Mental Picture

Frances Blackflower

I listened for an hour there in awe
At what she planned to write…

I listened for an hour there in awe
At what she planned to write, and had no doubt
That she’d be famous one day; with that wit
And grasp of complex plots, so well thought out

And wondered why it is a few that age
Hit their adulthood knowing who they are:
While others flounder, pointlessly, for years
Between the stage, the classroom or the bar —

But there she was, so brilliant and so sharp
A surgeon with her words and her ideas:
A young woman of passion and of fire
Who saw the thing she wanted, and would seize

Her moment when it came. And so she has:
Her talent recognized right off the mark,
She’s worked hard at her craft, and earned her way
With haunting stories, beautiful, but dark

Her life has had its problems, that I know.
Some people do not read her with delight.
But she knows what she truly loves to do:
What she was born to do, and that’s to write

Clayton the Wise

.. or so he seems to me.

He traveled far and traveled wide
To see a world of sights
He drank his fill in foreign bars
And had his share of fights

For conflict: he’d seen every kind
Both trivial and grand;
He lastly learned to walk away
And not lash out offhand

An now he sits alone above
The vista spread below:
And breathes the air of wakefulness
In long inhales and slow

For everywhere that Clayton’s been
He’s seen war doesn’t cease:
Unless we end it in ourselves
And find something
Like peace