asleep, relief from pain for a while
awake thankful for what preceded
grateful for what remains, hopeful
ambivalent about whats to come
yet sober, aware of life’s fragility
in the last analysis so powerless
swept along by the day-to-day
love rules supreme
Whatever archives say is not
history
history is there in walls of
ruminations
mind’s arcades
phantasmagoria of dreams
paintings hanging on walls
suffocated out of our obtuseness
and ink stands
which speak of
the derelict written word.
Euphoria visualised.
It begins at the base, a series
of background questions.
Then the story is spread out
Leaf to branch to leaf, a face
of a protagonist, a villain,
a few strange quotations.
One way, the story branches to
a satisfying locus of foliage.
The other way, the way is broken,
splintered, falls breathless to the ground.
Born during the famine
my seawoman ancestor set out regularly
into the Atlantic, southwards
and eastwards, towards Bristol,
trading metal and grain.
Though she lies quiet now
in the tomb at Ráth
my mind carries her about,
delicately as a caul,
sets her free on the high seas.
I am there too, at the binnacle,
manning the compass,
plotting our course westwards.
The name of our journey is mingling, or
daring, or dwelling with the things she loved.
In the sea there is no place
that is not her place.
Each journey is an alert
romance.
She respects the ocean’s stillness,
knows its savagery.
As waters rock beneath us
I nudge through her reticence,
amid flicker of whale pulse
and dolphin plunge, touch her heart,
sky sidling away in the wind,
and the notion I share with Kate, that this was our
first home,
that we crawled from its wet turbulence
aeons ago, limped across shores,
loved land later, with its trees and sighs.
I’ll be the ham
You be the mustard
Life can be the crusty
bread that holds us
together, toasty.
Now I need to figure
out the plate, napkins,
kitchen and cook.
A quiet daring stillness
between titanic events
like stirring the air.
In all this time I haven’t traveled very far
Stayed nearby, a stone’s throw, a short ride
To everything, the landmarks of my life,
Those milestones that measure the years —
I can still get to my childhood home in ten
Minutes, maybe less if traffic isn’t too deep.
I work across the street from where I went
To grade school, went to college a short bus
Ride away, my college was across the road
From where I was born, still go to the church,
When I go, where I was baptized. I’ve been
Shopping in the same stores so long that
They’ve come to know me and never ask me
What I’m looking for, because I buy the things
I bought last week, last year, and years before.
Why, I’ve been married to the same person for
Forty years, our wedding was in my college’s
Chapel — across the road from where I was born.
These distances satisfy me, convince me that
Fate is enough. I rarely tampered, or meddled,
Or even raised my hand with a question. I am
Simply at home in the small place that I am.
Twinkie, Twinkie, Little Cake
You’re so popular, but a fake
Crème-filled centers taste like heaven
Freshness guaranteed till May 4007!
It’s a retirement haven
for people with money but it works
like a Roach Motel. People move in
but never move out.
You and your wife move in to
a big condo and you’re delighted
by all the amenities.
Golf, tennis, squash,
swimming in an indoor pool,
massage, good meals,
snacks for the asking, new
movies every weekend.
But then you need help
counting your pills and you
move into assisted living while
your wife moves into
a smaller apartment,
hoping to save money.
A year later you have a stroke
and you’re taken by gurney
to another building, the big one
in back of the compound
no one talks about.
It’s skilled nursing there.
Your stay ends when you leave
in a long hearse with your wife
in the front seat while a new couple
moves into one of the condos.
They’re delighted by all the amenities.
Could be the condo you and your wife
moved into when you came here.
More at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com.
Where did I find the song I sing
The song inside all other songs
No one else can ever hear
Or claim it as their own
It’s a song of connections
A melody of loving and playing
The tune is made of dreaming
Dreaming of ancient songs
From the beginning of time