The Show Goes On

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


For People Here

Our selfishness can be, at times,
A blinding thing, I fear:
For what seems paradise to you,
Is work, for people here.

It’s warm and where you are, it’s cold.
It’s beautiful and clear —
Unless you’re trying to catch a fish
Twelve hours with a spear.

In which case, living in your house
Might seem like paradise —
But any who might envy us
Seem odd or ill-advised —

Our self-absorption is a fact
Excused because we’re frosty —
That our perspective shows a lack
At other times, is costly.

For if we can’t in simple things,
How do we think we’ll manage
To understand those yet unmet
Of unknown disadvantage?

For people here, a job’s job,
Just like it is out there:
And we can see it if we choose,
Or just choose not
To care


The day is gray and wet;
I place a candle here.
I neither can forget,
Nor can remember clear.

The face, it starts to fade,
The voice, it dies away;
I struggle to take hold,
But all is in decay —

For though we light our lights,
The years win out, at last.
The losingest of fights:
Our battle with the past.

But I will not give in,
Though, sure, at last, I’ll fall —
For I loved and was loved,
And that was worth

It all

This Bridge

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
From where
We are

{ … A Place … }

I know a place of green and blue
With aging fence and turning breeze,
Where once I ran when life was new,
And I was at my ease —

It is now as it ever was.
My feet can feel the downy grass;
I see, from off the riverside
Some bluebirds as they pass —

And memory, that liar’s torch,
Finds confirmation in the fact
Of all that was and is, without
Commotion to distract

For only in the emptiness
Of what is felt when mind is stilled
Could I know what has gone amiss
With what my heart’s been filled —

I know a place of open field
Where I am young again, in mind,
And where there still is space to run,
Or even leave some things

On An Old Abandoned Hospital

“I’s” unknown,
So many “they’s”,
From untold places,
Bygone days,
In rooms for healing,
Pass away:
We know this.
But we just

With our contumely
Carry on,
We’re here —-
What matters who is gone?
We think
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

The primitives
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 —“