the world was yours to find, and long before someone like me happened across your path; (the young man worries, 'how could such things be?'; the old man smiles at each age of you)
and this, this i embrace: this other time, this other world, this other view, and pure, the time of life-discovery and when you found new joy for every loss of sure
and though the walk was long and lonely, oft, there was the sand, the sea, the changing waves that stood beside each storm or vista clean, and welcomed you to each next unknown age
when you were at your best, it was just this: that in this life, there's always strife with bliss
The decorations taken down last night Before they watched another new year in; A year that had some sorrow, but no fight, No anger lingering in muddled din —
The years like mile markers rolling by While fire blazes in the fireplace; A laughing whim, another show to try As space drifts into time drifts into space —
These are their moments; calculus, it seems — A thousand nothings somehow adding up To walls and pictures, catalogues and dreams, All wine and water, mixed within the cup —
The thought though — everywhere, though we pretend — That each new moment’s closer to the end
In music, she can live another life, For sound is architecture, and ideal; It’s nature and it’s calm amid the strife Of all the world has come to make her feel.
To make of chaos, beauty, order, love — To find in sorrow, comfort and release — To be beneath, within, and yet above, To breathe in every moment filled with peace
But also, there’s the struggle of technique: To concentrate on something not herself And use her heart and mind both at their peak While being fully present, somewhere else
And all of this, it should be understood From one whose playing isn’t all that good
Just past the places where we used to walk,
Along the shore as evening fell in grace,
There're still the echoes of our murmured talk
And palm tree shadows once that touched your face.
For dark though grows the water off the dock,
And weary grows the heart that wonders why,
Just past the places where we used to walk,
What's left of fire, turned to mist and sky
Spreads out with eagle's wings upon the thought
That once, there was a different kind of song,
And with the joy, the movement that it brought,
Was agony we still sought to prolong.
It is a fact, though: true and somewhat sad,
What doesn't kill us makes us wish it had
She was my longest love in many ways,
With us so often on, or off, again;
She was a part of each divergent phase
Of all the things I tried to, could've been
She called me once in quite a fevered state;
Her voice its magic worked on me in tolls;
I drove six hours - then we made love eight -
A fire burning on in glowing coals
But something about us just was not right.
The chemistry was there, and we could talk:
But our values were different, so in spite
Of all the good we had, I chose to walk.
We have stayed friends, and lately I can tell:
I'm just another ex to her, as well
I wander freely in and out of dreams
Along a path where long ago we walked;
By tires on long ropes, swung over streams,
Where crickets chirped and frogs croaked as we talked –
And as young lovers do, we also did.
I loved the shy excitement of your eyes;
Your quick’ning breath, as on that path we hid
And tried our civil hearts to naturalize –
I still recall your look, your smell, your taste;
Each element of your glowing embrace –
To sin not, nor repent, in any haste,
To watch a moonlight shadow on your face –
With you I wander there in ecstasy:
With you, who’s never spent one dream on me
The seasons come and go, and we retire
Into a book, a series or a show;
To football games, or RPG’s we flee,
Escaping from that thing we do not know,
And yet which haunts us, keeping us from rest.
How beautiful this Christmas was, and yet
The endless January comes, and we
Get lost in worry: illness, failure, debt —
Are these our lives now? Is this all there is?
To decorate our days for little ones,
Our grandkids, laying out remembered joys
As if the season was just lights and toys —
But this I know, for I live where you are:
It’s you that warms the fire, and lights the star.
The day has come; I wander off to think.
My purpose has been accidental, and
A change is coming; I am on the brink
Of being somewhere I don't don't understand.
The years like track that's led me to this place.
December coming, ghostly falls the snow:
Do I keep going, with no place to go?
My markers gone, and I cannot retrace
The signs I used follow ere the days
I worked. Employment's supposed to be phase,
And not identity, and yet I find
I stumble now, and wander, cold and blind.
Where it all leads I really cannot say,
Or what will come, now finally comes the day.
across the pages, towering and slow,
the words and phrases, measured and precise;
the aching, felt first centuries ago,
contained within a uniform device
that tells what beats and syllables to use.
although some variations are allowed,
some things to add, a few that you can lose,
pentameter, both lyrical and proud,
contains within its limits, all the joys
that human kind can feel, as well as fears
that join into our hearts' increasing noise,
this golden mix of love and hope and tears.
these voices, who could not imagine us,
that we don't understand, but still, discuss.
while little we predict may yet come true,
we confidently state that this or that
is bound to happen, plain as blue is blue,
and rarely see we're wearing the tin hat
that indicates we may be way off base.
but reinforcement comes: the internet
is good for that. whatever be your case
there's someone who agrees, and who'll abet.
so being wrong's a cottage industry:
a chance to bark, to posture, and to fight;
we join into this ill community
and rather would "be right" than "get it right".
but all of it's unreal, except the mess
that comes from words carved out of emptiness
