I woke this morning heavy in the thought
Of what it was when you were in the room;
And though these many years have changes wrought,
Your scent’s still in the air, your presence felt.
The dead still brushing by me in my day
With more of wistfulness than nearing doom:
As sense and mem’ry twine in interplay,
Amid the daily cards that I am dealt.
But how you shaped me those long years ago,
The threads of yours that weaved into my loom,
These make up who I am – and will, although
The solar heat of age my mind will melt.
I hope, amid my soul’s infirmity
That you’re not disappointed, now, with me
(“The Weight of Memory” – 7-14-2015)
the days grew old, and so did we in strife
the years we wasted battling at words
within the walls of husbandry and wife
in tangled vines of grapes, beset by birds
and happy in our misery, it seemed —
we never sheared where shearing was required:
the watch upon the desk, it fairly gleamed
in telling us our bit of time’d expired
the celebrations rang outside our walls,
the laughter of the others who remained;
again to see: what stands as surely falls,
and are by wine, at last, as deeply stained
we saw the days grow old atop our tow’rs
and times grow dark that are, and had been, ours
Then solace comes, in dreams of cooler weather,
When autumn’s voice will free the captive heart,
The music of what can be done, together,
The silence of what must be borne, apart.
The color on the hills: a box of crayons,
The scent of leaves and trees and autumn things,
In sweaters, charged with hope, and maybe ions,
And other comforts fall so often brings —
We stand upon the threshold of departure,
Not from our lives, but how we choose to live,
The waiter, and the worker, and the charger,
A time to take, a time to hold, or give —
For life’s chaotic, but, it is not lawless,
And time itself can bring us hope and solace
For she was hostile, meaning, she’d improved;
At heart we crave illusions, like control —
It’s everywhere we’ve been, but never moved,
For profit’s so much lighter than a soul.
I know of course I could, that’s why I can’t;
Don’t point at hatred like it isn’t yours,
It’s only us that keeps our chances scant,
We miss the fish, and tear ourselves on lures.
Her mind’s a desert, and her heart’s a swamp –
He cobbles poetry, and tinkers verse –
We cover dust and ash in fame and pomp,
And practice what we know we can’t rehearse.
Oblivion, more habit, now, than quirk
Is not the only answer that will work.
We sat and ate Korean in this place
that sits amid the poorer part of town,
with Al Jazeera on the tv screen,
and folks of every age and place of birth
And after eating, as we sought the car,
a homeless man, who once fought in the war,
approached us for a word. He said that he
lived outdoors now – the V.A. was no help –
We gave him all the cash we had, but he
said that he did not want it; but, instead,
that he would say a blessing for us there,
for although poor in money, rich in grace
was he. Who owns ideas – and who owns men?
He asked – I do not know –
(Originally posted 3-13-2016 – Owen)
so many stories lost in ugly things.
the common world we choose to think beneath —
and so, we hear not what each echo brings:
remembered songs their lives to us bequeath.
a moment for reflection – just a turn –
it’s all we really need, it’s all it takes —
we have to know the tales, so we can learn
and not just substitute some new mistakes —
we should not venerate, nor should we scorn,
the lessons of the many come before;
and though new problems every day are born,
we didn’t invent hate, or love, or war —
for time will the turn pages of the book,
the chapters we will miss, if we don’t look.