At A Price

I bought the truth, but at a price,
For then, I found out what you thought;
I also see, to my regret,
There’s no returning what I bought

There is a wisdom we can know
That only sadness does confer;
I bought the truth, the price was steep —
The years I lost
In loving

The Real

The real world nearby here I love the best
Is green and growing southern countryside;
With farmland to the east and to the west,
Around the many rivers, long and wide

But forests are our main type of terrain –
And deer, I think, as plentiful as flies:
The real world sits outside my window pane,
I stop to take it in. And in surprise,

I notice many things I’ve never seen.
The sky’s still blue right now, the lawn is green;
The leaves are strewn across the lawn and fence,
This yard, this house, my world – and not immense –

The real me isn’t models, isn’t fairs;
It isn’t august majesty, or fame.
The real me sits and thinks — at times, despairs —
That when I leave, this world will be the same

As it was on the day that I arrived.
That when they finally spread my funeral pall
My fleeting hopes and visions, so short-lived,
Will have made no small difference
At all


the dewdrops cover every blade
of grass here on my morning way;
a water slide to start my day
as clinging nightmares start to fade

the whip-strikes of the evening storm
that lashed about me in the night;
the dewdrops soothe that all away,
my way seems clear,
the day
seems bright


It’s been a revelation
Writing these pieces

How often I have been in love —
Or thought I was —
How many friends
Have touched my life

I stand here tonight,
By this grill —
By happenstance, I am
The only one at home —

And I realize that
For years
I painted a portrait of myself
At variance
With the actual life
I’ve led

I’ve hardly been a loner
And I’ve experienced enough
For several lifetimes —
Much of it

The steak’s almost ready

And so, I think

Am I

Where His Head is At

His family’s angry at him now
For having done what he has done;
But yet I’m sure the way he feels
Is meaningful to him

He knows that somewhere people are
So much in love that passion reigns;
But he has not felt that in years
And it’s a thing he wants

Or feels he needs, I do not know.
But she – she could not give it him.
And so he left her, and their child
To seek the “newness” once again

I understand, but still I think:
To give so much up, without fight —
It might make sense inside his heart
But that will never make it


I grew inured to horses years ago.
My grandson’s only two: with him, not so —

And if we see a horse out on a drive,
The magic in it brings his heart alive

Which passes, him-to-me, through unknown powers;
And we might neigh each other then
For hours

(Yes, well, being a grandfather is what it is. – Owen)