Time, the punisher of spirits,
has left me these reminders that
just a year ago, you sat at this table.
Scenes I relive
over and over,
like these dingy pewter utensils,
for what is real is always imperfect.
What is important in life is simple,
in the end:
and at the end,
you knew that I loved you, and
I knew that you loved me,
in the midst of your pain and my heartache.
Time, the enforcer of mortality,
has left me these reminders:
and I will one day leave them
The ugliness of life, it waits
Around the corner, in the dark;
For all we might procrastinate,
The ugliness of life will leave it’s mark.
For long with patience will it seek
The moments we are down, or weak,
And scour down the shores and docks,
The country roads, or city blocks,
Or happy pathways in the mist
That we might hap to walk upon.
The ugliness of life, it sits
And from its hiding place, it won’t be drawn.
Until the moment it might choose
To show itself, to our regret:
When all we seem to have, we lose,
And our few certainties, upset.
Yet still we travel, as we must,
Our meagre stock of hope and pride,
With ugliness around, we trust
It’s sister, loveliness, is just outside…
The ugliness of life is there,
Around the corner, every day;
In all we seek, for all we dare,
The ugliness of life won’t
we saw him at the grocery store —
an empty cart, a vacant stare —
a man who’d always worn a smile,
miles, now, from anywhere
the earth he’d tilled lay in the sun,
as he kept at the life he’d known,
but empty was a table chair
and inside, no light ever shone,
for she, who gaunt became, had gone;
and he himself had dug the earth
in which she rested, free from pain,
but what was all of this still worth?
the smell of soil freshly turned
brings moisture to his eyes, because
he wishes that dirt covered him,
so he could walk the fields
I watched her slowly disappear.
A myriad of reason
Had caused her leaves to part the tree.
Both in and out of season.
She held on every way she could,
‘Til that last cord did sever,
And I wish I could hold her now,
But that hope’s gone
Once, there was a girl,
Who was a person, not a picture —
And anywhere she ventured to,
My heart would also go —
But time brought days, and days revealed
The cracks in our foundation:
For whether you “find out” or not,
Eventually, you know —
Like rain upon a lake,
Our passive, commonplace,
And simple failed attempt,
Has vanished, without trace,
Today I feel the ache
Begin to slowly worsen
When someone who you loved becomes
Not a person
So much can happen in a year,
A month, a week, a day;
How sorrow can envelop us
Past what mere words could say —
And yet, there is in memory,
One joy that’s understood:
And that’s that we’ve known many things,
And some of them