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Blue river of compassion
how those waves open
unfurl into righteous men
riding your waters
crescent moon and the hill
on other side mourns
lapping waves, cries of the seagull, lament of fishermen
in an island that is sinking.
There’s not going to be that moment, we’ve all had them,
When a doctor tells us that it’s all just a common cold or
Gas pains or merely an imbalance of the humors that will
Correct itself with time, or we can exercise and diet back
From what we thought was the brink. No, not this time,
This time, time becomes the bad guy, exercise and diet
Its close followers; now the aches and pains add up, stay
With us, our worlds become a bit smaller every day, we
Become one of those people we remember from our youth,
Those people who always mention their ailments as if they
Were essential to their identity, slower steps, smaller meals,
Elaborate plans for a calendar that has little more to do than
Mark more time spent. Getting older is built in, there’s no
Escape, no cure, no way to recuperate, no moment after, when
Things are back to normal, when we step out once more with
A new spring in our step and things are back as they were.
Leave me alone in this
seascape
of wilderness, crouching wind
blues, little ragamuffin of a boy, entering sleepless
in corridors of home, pine hills and summertime of
frisky birds.
I wanted half
would settle for a third
was unprepared for such bypass
cardiac surgery with complications
mea culpa could not resuscitate
but years of talk chemistry helped
really?
Define real
ly
cancel the controls
ignore the meetings
return the keys
erase the memories
forget the victories
empty your pockets
hang your head
or it will be removed
along with the contents of your locker.
Old Tim writes poetry now
in his heaven of retirement.
He’s had nice jobs
over the years but swears
retirement is better.
He’s forgetful now but never
suffers from writer’s block.
The words come so fast
his fingers fly like eagles
across his IBM Selectric.
The sound of a typewriter
is a concert for Old Tim.
When he types he swears he sees
Astaire dancing with Ginger Rogers
on a small black and white TV.
Says colored sets are a fad.
He would never own one.
He’d rather type and watch
Fred and Ginger dancing.
More at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com.
Many a day I pause to think
of those who have passed away
to become nothing but ashes
as insubstantial as a handful
of sand or dull clumps of clay,
with even the humblest creatures
that animate the world around me
like the ants, butterflies and bees
possessed of more life than they.
Oh, that the deceased left ghosts
at least there would thus remain
some vestige of them to be seen
or that there were a high heaven
where their souls dwelt eternally,
not this complete annihilation
with no salvation or damnation
for these who have ceased to be
that now haunt only my memory.
They didn’t tell you it would be like this
They promised you
It’s safe out there –
Just give it a shot
So you left the warmth and protection of your birthplace
They didn’t tell you it would hurt like hell
That you can slap a smile on all you like
Go about your day
Chopping carrots, reading textbooks, coffee dates with friends
But there will still be that tugging deep inside you
They said
You are strong
You can defeat it
You can manage it
They said
It doesn’t make you weaker
Maybe, but you will be tested every day,
Torn down just a little every time something goes wrong
“Think happy thoughts”
“Happiness is a choice”
“Be grateful, you have a roof over your head”
“What is your problem?”
You cower in your own shame
Disgusted
You know the blackness surrounding you is a product of none other than
Yourself
You reach for contentment
Grasp at serenity
Hands peeling open
Fingers ache from
Reaching so far
They didn’t tell you that one kind word could turn your day around,
While a mean look could ruin you for months.
They didn’t tell you that others would claim to understand you,
To relate to you,
And then give neither warmth nor kindness when you inevitably slip
up.
You didn’t realize how accurate the clichés could be:
Standing in a room full of people, but never having felt so alone.
And you fear being alone for
You think the loneliness could engulf you,
Entrench you.
Pin you to the floor and sit on your chest.
But you’re aware now.
You know the feeling
And can feel it coming.
Over the years you’ve built up your defenses,
Prepared to attack when needed.
You’re hurt?
Not anymore – you feel nothing.
You’re sad?
Not anymore – you are numb.
You’re lonely?
Not anymore – you’ve drowned out the silence.
They didn’t tell you how cruel life is to those who
Are cruel to themselves.
There is no outside force.
You are your own killer
You are strangling yourself
You are spiraling down
You are defenseless
Most importantly,
You are not to blame.
But nobody tells you this.
Only,
“What the hell is your problem?”
Now that autumn’s spirit is
languishing, in winter’s scent
progenitors of time.
I breathe heavily as the smell
of husk weaves into this
small asthmatic body.
September creeps along anarchic grass.
In our garden plum trees bend
to the earth, each branch
a frail skirmish
across briars and barriers,
naked warriors
accepting no natural defeat.
It is autumn
and we have come
to gather in the fruit,
eat in our orchard,
think God is good,
but there are wasps and worms
feeding, and we have our own wars.
