Spent Manic Blossoms

The few, short hours that we get
To sit upon the dying grass,
The days of sunlight soon to fade,
As they, like we, are born to pass –

Habitual endearing of
Those close enough to plunder —
And this, we’ve come to glorify;
It sort of makes you wonder

A song this morning played, a song
Of love that just went wrong;
It had a beat, we danced to it,
It didn’t last that long

Then guided by our appetites
We craved the beat unceasing –
And bought what wasn’t anyone’s
For having or for leasing

It’s only life. It’s only art.
It’s only six A.M. —
The sun is shaking off its sleep,
It’s soon to rise again –

I think the sun’s benign, another
Elementary blunder;
In days that butcher who they can –
It sort of makes you wonder

The girl that’s looking straight at me
Is only eight years old;
She knows no trepidation, she
Is wild as she is bold

How can the aging father say
The young should wary be?
I turn to go about my day,
And trust posterity

Will lead her to a world of light
The world she sees before her;
I won’t pour water on her soul,
Not badger, nor ignore her

Perhaps, she is a healer, not
One made to mar or plunder —
What she could be, we should have been,
It sort of makes you wonder

Behold, the living narrative
Is spun before our eyes;
It’s there to tell us how to live,
What we should hate, or prize –

But every kind of shadow blocks
Some other kind of light;
And wear whatever mask you will
It’s coming off tonight

Insanity and vanity,
They’re our one legacy;
As we will follow slavishly
Our prized un-parity –

It kind of makes you wonder;
Then again, it just may not —
The few, short hours that we get
To sit until
We rot

A Country Autumn – 9

The evening fast approaches, headed home,
Out on a country road that’s new to me;
I see a house and wonder who might live
In such a place, on such a property

And who I’ll never see or ever know.
Our interwoven web of place, milieu —
Where some lines meet awhile, and then part,
While others never touch, but

Almost do

The Quilt of Human Memory

I still remember my grandmother,
Although I saw her, maybe seven times,
Past the age of two.

And maybe she remembered hers,
Or a grandfather,
And so on back.

The quilt of human memory
Is connected, but not
Linear: we remember those
Who remember those others
Who remember those still others.

It has been said
That you die a second time,
The day the last person who remembered you dies.
But I don’t think that’s right,
Because someone still remembers
That person.

We’re connected, but different:
Separated in time, by other connections,
Not directly,
But still —
It’s a beautiful
Crazy
Type

Of connection

Beautiful, Sad

i see it as i wander by…

the world is beautiful and sad,

i see it as i wander by;

the good things that we want – so bad –

our reason – just an alibi –

 

the aching heart will know no peace;

the tired soul will find no rest —

the world is beautiful, but sad:

our worst is so mixed up in

all our best

I Wandered Into Poetry

I wandered into poetry
Since little else made sense;
For all the clots and retinues
Grew steadily more dense –

But here, in this reality,
I’ve found it to be true
That where our finest speech does naught,
The slightest touch
Might do
 


 

(“I Wandered Into Poetry” – 7-17-2015)