The show goes on; the dead have played their part.
But still we wait for one more cue, or line:
Those ne’er said words that we have known by heart,
And memorized, as though a valentine
That we will never feel in hand, or see.
The looked for, listened for, and waited on
That will not heed our cry, or hear our plea;
For love’s most fully owned when it is gone.
The show goes on; the dead have played their role,
But there’s no point in dialogue, or mark;
You live, although you’re missing half your soul,
A sunflower within the gray and dark —
For none of it makes any kind of sense,
The scene, the plot, the play, the
The places in our lives are part of us,
And I spent days with family in these aisles.
So much we buy just seems ridiculous,
The stuff we brought along for all these miles –
Her cousin was the manager a bit;
We’d see him upfront, sometimes, tall and straight —
They let him go before the worst had hit,
So he, his wife, and kids moved out of state.
And I remember toys – my son was small –
Including some my grandkids play with now;
I know that life just happens, that things change,
But some days it still gets to me, somehow.
So many turns and orbits by our clocks,
The once-alive that’s now an empty box
Back then, I’d drive across this bridge
To get to where I had to be;
In summer, stood in traffic long,
No other choice was there for me.
For this was where it happened, then,
The daily choices I would make,
But now, it’s been a lot of years
And though I’m back for mem’ries sake,
The lesson learned is still alive.
This bridge was all the choice I had;
There was no point in wondering,
Or feeling down, or done-by-bad,
As I still had a way to go,
Though sometimes onerous and slow —
For though our routes be near, or far,
We have to start
Step out into the day.
The cells are moving, moving, all
The monads of existence;
All seeing, but not touching,
Riding currents of whatever’s
Step out into the day.
There is a flow, a
Wonder and a glory;
Carried on each crest and trough,
And feeling what’s within and
So many “they’s”,
From untold places,
In rooms for healing,
We know this.
But we just
With our contumely
We’re here —-
What matters who is gone?
It isn’t real, beyond,
A faint remaining
An echo, an
A bill of life
That’s elsewhere spent;
We needn’t hear
What there was meant,
Nor sit down to
Who came before,
Who lay in here,
Or built this door,
Whose tears and blood
Call from the floor,
“All dust is made
Of us —“
I dream in silence, dream of running children,
Of you, the way you were so long ago;
So long ago, some untoward December,
The cold before the falling of the snow.
You’re going faster, up and towards the mound —
The film is running, running without sound
There is no taste or scent, there’s only vision;
The colors are bedimmed, to black-and-white,
You turn, excited, asking me to chase you,
And in my dream, I’m ready for the flight —
For though the scene is silent, I’m assured
By how you looked, of what had been your word.
With travels great, word-billions said,
Somehow, there lives within my head,
A vision, like a silent show:
A place I was a hundred lives ago —
I dream in silence, dream of us as children,
Of you and I out running in the fields,
Out in the fields of untoward December,
Before our hearts constructed all these shields —
For though the world grows old and taut with violence,
I still remember you within
Photo credit : ID 72579129 Vadim Zakharishchev | Dreamstime.com
My mind is always seeking patterns,
Symmetries that I can find;
Looking for associations
Quaint or colorful or kind —
All day long I’m seeking patterns,
And at night, through dream and mare;
Just to find, whene’er I see them,
That my mind has put them