Tag: Memories

a secret paradise

On By Beleaguered ServantIn Original PoemsLeave a comment 
within a secret paradise 
we gave our time and hearts 
to further our entanglement 
in duties, fits, and starts -- 
we touched the ceiling of the sky, 
that pure-blue canopy -- 
  so young, and so unwise, 
  in secret paradise. 

the shadows, once an aqua-green, 
gave way to dark and gray: 
we thought we'd never end, for there 
was always one more day -- 
but silence comes with separateness, 
and all eyes come to see 
  the time is just a slice 
  in secret paradise.

the memory now lives on, but only 
for a little while; 
our paths are merely leaves we move 
for all our wit, and guile -- 
but still, such colors as can make 
a sweet day come to be 
  are worth the timeless price 
  of secret paradise.

A Different Time

On By Beleaguered ServantIn Original PoemsLeave a comment 
IT WAS, I know, a different time; 
 more in my awareness than 
 in any particular external essence.
Then, as now, though 
 cameras captured but part of the sights, 
 and recorders only some of the sound. 
Memory, for one my age, isn't so much 
 about bringing that old world back 
 as it is bringing it back fully to mind. 
For our recollections are always faulty, 
 but nonetheless precious for all their flaws. 
We lived near the water, in a place 
 many travel to see, but much fewer actually live, 
 as the storms are rather harrowing, and 
 the sun merciless. 
I can still feel, these years later, 
 the sand beneath my feet, and smell the waves, 
 and hear the steady rhythmic sound of the surf, 
 even though my eyes grow cloudy, and 
 my heart heavier every year with grief.
Nostalgia was originally a word for a disease, 
 one believed to be fatal.
For me, though, it is more life-affirming 
 that it is destructive;
 it is in the continuity and variety of our lives 
 that our stories have meaning -- 
 even if only, primarily, to us.

Now, When I Remember You

On By Beleaguered ServantIn Original Poems34 Comments 
To tell the story of a life
Takes many pages, many words;
To tell the story of a love
Takes every bit as long

The you I saw in summer fields
Beneath an endless weightless sky
The you I felt in tenderness
The softness of your skin, a sigh

For now, when I remember you
There is a novel in my mind;
The beauty of your memory
Is always young, and brave, and kind

There's beauty in the world, I know,
But I thought I had lost it then:
You walked into the room, and I
Became the mindfulest of men

But this - this was not me at all
This was all you, and love; it was
A type of wakeful dreaming where
I did not want to wake, because

Your magic was in everything.
If ever a man loved, I did:
I cherished every moment, and
I lay awake at night and bid

The minutes slow their very march.
To lengthen time, our time, so much
As possible; to see your eyes
To stroke your hair, to softly touch

Your skin beneath your summer dress.
To love you there with all my heart;
Your words of warning in my ears
That love is short and lovers part.

A life, my life, what is it now?
It's just a cold and fading fire
A soon forgotten flickering
Of what was once raging desire

And all for you, my long true love -
Who taught me wonder in the night,
Whose hand I took to cross the bridge
Of leaving off and doing right

The day is closing in, and I
Put down my pen, and rest a while -
For now, when I remember you
I shiver once, and lastly
Smile

(“Now, When I Remember You” – 6-25-2015)

Farm Visit Morning, Age 10

On By Beleaguered ServantIn Original Poems1 Comment 
The morning was heavy with mist and dew
But the sun was hot and the light burned through
And I was just ten, with little to do
But explore the surrounding farmland.

By brother and I at long last stood
By a single tree near a teeming wood
Where the sounds were full and the message good
For those who would understand

That the mist and the sun and the trees and the grass
Are there to remind of us that what doesn't last
Just comes back different, once time has past,
And we still take in the unplanned

A House of Memories

On By Beleaguered ServantIn Original PoemsLeave a comment 
The mind's a house of memories
That's shaped before we know
The subtle warping influence
That circumstance bestows

And that we think of now, as truth.
But this is our great weakness:
That our partial perspective comes
To seem, to us,

Completeness