Poet’s Angst
-
-
“Melancholia” by Albrecht Durer
“Melancholia” by Albrecht Durer
Poet’s Slow Silent Serial Suicide
He grew tired of Atlas and that gravitas
bored of fraternitas and seven errant brothers
grew dull in orchard pastoral poems, Goose Mothers
and traditions meaningless as constellations
he failed to comprehend—and so his end
became one of commerce—as though some
coin—any coin—might prove his worth
to him. Passage fee for Charon . . .
He could comprehend—in the end
that was his Ubermensch heel—Achilles
on kryptonite—history transcends all
men, who are, in geologic time, but
motes seen in this rural house
once by a party uninterested, who
will not buy—and so we die. We die
and our drama no more to Earth or sky
than that buzzing fly which mates
the dim lamp’s incandescent bulb
as though impassioned poet wooing,
making mad love to the waxing moon,
mythic romance, Endymion waking.
He turns the light out, knowing the fly’s disillusion—
and kills a little piece of every poet.
David M Pitchford
6 November 2008
David M Pitchford
6 November 2008
54 Comments »
Leave a comment
David M Pitchford
a few favorite poets
Blogroll
Poetry
Rank my Blog
Hmm…I think I’ve seen this one before, at least a version of it. I liked it then, and I like it now. The more I read it, the more I like it. It speaks to me, a rather troubled poet who often questions what it’s all about, on so many levels.
What is a poem truly worth? Is it merely in coin, or something much more? How does a poet judge true value? Are we happy flies only when seduced by the light of sales, or are we greater beings than that?
I like the Durer piece, too.
Thanks for sharing!
Can this be why you have not sent any pieces for inclusion in Jon Sanders’ online anthology? Whatever the reason, I hope you will reconsider; it was a real disappointment not to find your work in the proof copy he sent us.
Not really. Time and life just sort of got out of hand . . . I’m working on working on getting back to the poetry thing.
I hope you find your way back…
The forest is very dark and dense here . . .
and all the bread crumbs have turned to spiders
He Wanders
Lost in the wooded darkness, fantasy
vanishes; blue eyes (once captured in sky
light) are dimmed beneath the canopy to
misted grey. The trail, dropped along the way
into this grand journey, has disappeared.
The bread crumbs have mixed in with the soil;
feed the beasts surrounding him—both real and
imagined. Spider webs tangle across
his path, catch in his beard and grab his soul.
Their weavers crawl slowly up arms and legs.
Daring adventure has turned to danger;
uncertainty clouds his sight—he wanders.
Forest green eyes, damp with teardrop-kissed dew
watch, unable to guide his progress home.
As Though a Man with No Home
No Ulysses, he. Wily, but not to
stay and tend his home; he grabbed wanderlust
by her hairpins, rode her like a banshee
into the West . . . siren song like incense
calling some golden god to rescue, bless
the alms-giver. But no. There was no black
deception, no intrigue, and certainly
no romance. It was madness pure as pissed-
in snow downrange of Denver. It was life;
it confused him; he got lost, and turning,
saw Eurydice fade to memory—
“Wife nevermore,” her tears bleed his heart. “Friend
to God and Back; and it goes on forever!”
On good word he heard he had no home . . .
If She Had Wings
She will only fade when his memory
of her is no more; for always he is
in her heart. Their home, a shell—emptiness
haunts while she holds hands with a ghost beside
her in their bed. She would fly, if she had wings,
backward or forward in time to capture
the illusive moment when his siren
sang a song for which she had not the words
to compete. Unaware of his madness,
she saw him vanish West beyond her touch;
her deep pool of tears spread an ocean wide,
divided them; she forgot how to swim.
The time alone to find a path across
is worth its wait in gold—yes—and then some.
Ulysses Ponders Penelope from Circe’s Cave
This wide ocean is nothing for the man
of determination I was leaving
home—‘home’, what bittersweet idealism,
fantasy for a man afloat on fates’
currents . . . no matter that my choices led
me to Circe’s cave—and somewhere further
West than Penelope cares to reach; Fears
wild as beasts, savage as nightmare, haunt her,
not knowing if I misled myself, not
knowing if my madness has passed, longing
for truth and clarity though beset by shadows
and cautious of the words that got her there: alone.
Hero no longer, brave Ulysses’ gaze
dreams him easterly—‘home’ a distant haze.
Just One Man
Her cares reach beyond the shores of every
ocean, into the depths of each forest,
searching for knowledge she knows may never
be hers. Her gaze sees the horizon-line,
blurred in shadow when she lets go of dreams
she has carried through this life and the last.
Caution cloaks her conscious mind, ignoring
her subconscious, bent on running westward.
Neither knows the truth, clarity eludes,
and madness threatens her with nightmares—hope
something she fears to grab hold of this time,
certain she cannot withstand one more loss.
Penelope never longed for heroes—
just one man to wrap her inside his love.
A Man Alone
His tenderness strains toward some unseen shore,
toward a captain’s wife strolling sands, one word,
sketchy, weatherworn, crying disaster:
Rocinante—his ship’s name, the name now
her shackle to wondering hopelessness . . .
Reports have him far to the west, stranded,
calling to friendly breezes and struggling
to earn passage on the next bark homeward.
But their parting was savage—his drunken
rant rent her heart as did the storm his ship;
he fears rejection, knowing well enough
her heart sank on Rocinante’s launch west,
shattered as surely as her planks and masts . . .
yet love returns sanity—hope survives.
Waiting with Patience
Patience is the key to unlocking doors
memory guards for her sanity’s sake.
It is tempering hope and reminding
her to step cautiously along the beach,
careful to avoid sharp rocks and the pain-
filled ruins left behind when he set sail.
She has not lost count of the moon-cycles,
feels their pull even when she turns her back
on the ocean between them, trying hard
to forget the caress of waves across
her flesh, the salt-taste of Poseidon’s kiss,
and how it was replaced by her own tears.
Crushed against her chest, she holds the broken
pieces of that life, waiting with patience.
Beseeching Her Constellation
Calm after mad illness, he looks skyward
to trace a new constellation in stars
familiar as her lines, that figure he
longs for, poignant as the cold in his soul
where their hearthfire sparks, desperate to re-
ignite—fueled now on memories and wish . . .
“Penelope,” he prays the stars, his new
constellation, “forgive! Fool I am, I
see now; the sea was not what it was, is
neither home nor sanctuary—solace
was never elsewhere than our embrace! Here
is but a shadow of life; lead me home
sweet stars! Toss me a lifeline: that circle
of salvation, swear sworn to anchor hope.”
Echoes Around Her
Is there calm after such a storm or does
the sea rage and tumble ‘til no one can
tell the waves from the foam and all feels lost.
In shadows, clouds cast across the full moon,
she watches for signs of starlight. Knowing
his madness has become her own, she cries
to separate water from foam, forgive
if she cannot forget—offer solace,
beg for patience and time, as not enough
of either has passed to allow her hope.
Memories slip through in dreams, and wishes
slide between words she mumbles in half-sleep,
wanting no one—and everyone—to hear;
the sound of the sea echoes around her.
Take Hope
Take hope, my love, for all storms pass in time;
the stunned bird shall fly again, even soar
blues skies, calm after rage, over waves smooth
and placid as a babe’s napping. Take hope,
my love, for the clouds shall pass and the moon
cast her shadows more gently; starlight glint
softly over stilled waters. Take hope, for
love conquers madness where the will desires.
Forgive me, love, for it was I who brought
this wretched storm, I who shook the thunder
from Poseidon’s trident and caused the waves
to crash sans mercy over paradise—
forgive my losing faith, tossing tantrums,
fleeing west into this crazed illusion.
Climbing
Hope is an elusive bud on branches
now covered with snow, the tulip leaves crushed
beneath the weight of winter’s harsh return.
Each time it approaches, thunder and storms
cast themselves overhead and bury it;
hide it from view until I forget its
existence. I watch for warmth and the words
to melt the ice built up inside, knowing
it will happen, knowing patience is still
a virtue I hold tenderly; it rests
in the palm of my hand. It’s a fragile
new born sensation, offering up faith
and trust—its partners on this climb upward—
to remind me, calmer times wait for us.
Spring
Life itself is hope. What clings to life holds
hope itself, thus blooms, thus thrives. Each new bud
in spring is hope, also Hope’s avatar—
each bud an angel singing God’s name to
renew the world, and the songbirds echo
Creation’s birth cries as a last dusting
of winter’s death falls pristine yet ashen
not to suffocate hope, but to contrast
what is from what is not . . . hope. Spring renews
all living things; is love not a living
creature? Though unmanifest in matter,
is it not a thing renewed by this new
sap, this vitality of things growing
toward new life and bounty? Let love renew!
Tell Me
I sit down to write you a love sonnet;
share in detailed intimacy, our life.
And every time I put pen to paper,
fingertips to keyboard, the words vanish.
In two days time we celebrate the day
when, ten years ago, you met me for lunch.
We wandered from the garden to the aisle
full of pens, paper, tentative kisses,
and giggles about cameras perched high
overhead, capturing our every move.
We got past phone calls and the awkwardness
of former lovers as friends; each struggle
worth the time spent to get there together.
Tell me—where will we spend the next ten years?
Who’s to Tell?
In sonnet, it is to reply well nigh
impossible! All answers lie within
your heart—but what a trap our minds can weave!
No matter of hope? Then trust? Yes, then trust,
and trust heals only with time; absence has
no solution, is no solution, stands between
this moment and the next. Trust relies on
presence and promises kept, commitments
kept, words backed by actions and actions by
right motivation. How can this distance
serve to heal when the salve itself is kept
abay of the wounds? But who would heed me,
for I am he who with words those wounds struck—
Far from here—there shall we spend future years.
Does the Broken Heart Love?
A broken watch no longer ticks. Broken
things need fixed before they’ll function further;
is there something about the heart that bucks
this trend? Or is it possible your heart
is merely fractured? One slight shake of fault
from broken? Were it broken, would the love
not seep out like water from faulted urns?
Does the broken heart love, or merely wish
it were able still to hold something pure,
something more wholesome than anger or rage
or guilt or doubt—whatever bitter bile
bleeds into its cracks, its faultlines, fractures
and punctures from word-darts shot in hateful
times? Perhaps hearts do love, even broken.
they do
The Other Side
I walk unfamiliar territory;
strange foothills, steep mountain paths all around.
I’m looking for something to hold on to,
tangled roots or perhaps an olive branch
yet can only see evergreen hemlock.
Waterfall mists, teardrops in the river,
cloud my vision; the roar of it deafens
until I can hear nothing but the sound
of my own request for guidance; to love
and live, to heal and yet to remember.
Can we let go, allow the past to pass,
to reach the other side of where we are?
I need to say goodbye; knowing then hope
and trust will have a chance to grow again.
Release Yourself
How selfish to hold when leaving time comes
and goes and love wanders a thousand miles
away . . . A fool again, thinking to heal,
offers only deeper injury. His
heart fractured, mind tortured, he means merely
well, yet seems simply harm to sew and reap!
Karma traps him in his iron maiden,
yet he refuses to bleed anything
but words and words and poems. No red blood
flows from his veins . . . yet all his life he would
shed to reprieve those he’s prisoned in pain.
“Freedom!” he cries. But none will hear his words,
for it was his words what wounded ones he
swore infinite love . . . Now how release?
The Lilac
Last summer—June really—it was a stick
in the dirt; no leaves, not even a bud.
Father’s day—or was it for a birthday?
whichever—it was a gift to—for—him,
something growing, alive, and permanent.
Looking out the bedroom window, she sees
it has grown strong through the winter, branched out.
Leaves have emerged. She wonders what color
she bought, white or purple? She remembers
wanting to please him with the lilac tree.
She presses her forehead to the cool pane
and plays a memory back, sees his smile.
Laughter and hope, trust and love are still there—
fragrant blossoms hidden inside them both.
Stick in the Mud
Last time I saw it, that’s all it showed me—
a stick in the mud, symbol of my soul,
life somehow run dry of sap, unblooming,
dooming itself to colorless summer
in pause for some sign from Nature. It grows
now a thousand miles from where I linger
in grey, sapless winter. Yesterday I
noticed the grape hyacinth—some nearby
neighbor’s gift to spring, a splash of color
against the dull white of old snow—and thought
perhaps hope and sap had not fully left
my life, my soul, my world. Yet cold remains
to retard recovery; chill winds tear
my eyes, beauty blurs to mere impression . . .
This Heart
Release me to love again—within this
life, yours and mine—the power rests with you.
If it is to be renewed, let time heal
the wounds inflicted, consciously or un-,
and begin from fresh words and deeds, new life
with new possibility, new hope, and
trust earned from promises spoken—and kept.
No one holds the keys to this locked up heart
but the jailor who imprisoned it—yet
to be truly free, it must be freely
given flight and won over once again,
if that is where your heart wishes to be.
This fractured heart can mend to love again,
with bonds grown stronger when grown together.
Why Should i Withhold this Blade?
tears of salt stream down my cheeks, tears of blood
down my arms; why should I withhold this blade?
Betrayal all around: I to her; she
to me—why go on when love so fickle
flirts but commits only flittingly? My
heart was true till the wrong wind blew; now I
am but another of adultries’ pawns
caught cold and naked, blade on my arm
and wanting to cut abomination
from life as though a mere wart—and yet
trust not so easily recovers! What
is left but to shed blood in sacrifice
and atone for what is unforgiven?
Blood runs down this drain; where is forgiveness?
Forgiveness
Time to stem the tide of tears, tourniquet
the arm, stop the flow of blood—let it not
spill between the two of us—love exists
in both our hearts; it’s just time to heal
that makes us edgy—you and I alike.
Salt in wounds, intentional or never
meant, still stings. Commitment is not taken
lightly—nor given easily. Fearful
of pain, too much of late, keeps me in check,
making me pause—although my heart does not.
If I were to only heed my heart, trust
me, love would rule . . . still betrayal speaks
and neither can refuse to listen, yet . . .
—we both need time to forgive and find hope.
Too Late the Savior
Time moves on. Forgiveness waits only so
long before it’s time to move on and get
on with life (such as it is). Someone said
recently I need to get over my
messiah complex—and my pariah
complex as well. Laughing, I sacrificed
another limb to Hell’s flames and refuse
to staunch or lick the wound. It must fester
and gather maggots as all corpses must;
these scavengers and eaters of dead flesh
are too-late saviors, consuming dead flesh
to make way for new to grow—yet first, Death
must sate itself on that gore, that stench, that
don’t-know-what that somehow moves life forward . . .
Love Complex
Fantasy has always been the great bane
of my existence. Not ordinary
prince and princess storybook romances;
the tragic love story where he is killed
or banished or leaves her simply because
she isn’t what he expected—wanted . . .
She pines for him even as she stands up
tall, sure, and confident to the world
around her, cowering—dying inside
as time passes and years roll over her.
One day I’ll wake, see ‘me’ in your writing,
your words, your eyes—those that saw right through me—
and, even if it’s years from now, I’ll know
it’s okay to be in love with you—still.
D i s t a n c e s
The distance between you-and-me is less
than the ens and ems between these letters,
yet in the minds’ eye, Planck’s scale grows too vast
a chasm; illusion clouds thought, thought clouds
heart and head alike. We part never to
touch again—Hero losing Leander,
whose delusion of drowning blinds him to
her lamp evermore. The drowned cannot swim
nor circumnavigate the Hellespont . . .
I am no Leander, she no Hero,
and yet we play the drama, live their myth
as though that were real to this world. Love dies
a million deaths in such tragedies—Oh!
But love births itself a billion times in Life!
Brick and Mortar
In the tower, with light lit, I wonder
is that swim frightening for both of us?
I feel as if I had jumped in myself,
floundered against the tides to make my way
through the year we lost, when you couldn’t swim.
I wonder if a bridge will be built now;
if either of us have “it”—the patience
to allow the time for new construction?
Love—trust, the essential brick and mortar
yet will provide us the chance for success.
Growing up—growing apart, letting go
only to find one another again
may be a fantasy; may be a dream—
and the way to keep promises alive.
Highway to Sunrise
Fantasy and dream to keep promises
alive? Seems a paradox: should it not
be that promises keep dreams alive? This
highway leads me to sunrise; should I drive
it in hope, or for promise? But then, what
is a vow but the grasping of hope moving
forward? Knowing as I drive this highway
east that the sunrise shall pass me by, still,
shall I not hope in tomorrow’s promise
and other sunrises to come? Yet I
fail to comprehend how distance offers
hope of healing; does not proximity
have more hope to offer? The sight of eye-
to-eye, the touch of hand-in-hand . . . shared hugs?
Distance Offers Time
Dreams and promises walk hand-in-hand, share
space in hearts and minds. Hope fills crevices
between reality and fantasy,
colors the sunrise – and sunset – beyond
the reds and oranges we see at first glance.
It provides magenta, crimson, azure,
goldenrod and seafoam to draw us on
toward tomorrow and the next day, healing
wounds and offering possibilities
in the shadow of painful memory.
Whether distance offers time in miles
or minutes, this need to touch and hold is
a painful reminder of days and nights
apart – and those shared – without each other.
Shared Spaces
Buddha holds all difference as illusion;
you are me, I am you, separation
not exists. But then, I know you to be
no Buddhist. Respecting your beliefs, I
offer space and time though I know them for
nothing. I am you, you are me. We are
neither separate nor together, we are
merely thoughts of difference clouding this pond
of ponderance as Buddha muses on
himself in the cosmos that is All,
that is the Boss himself and nothing else.
We are koi here swimming through indifferent
dreams of the Universe’s Self-conscious
Self. You are You. I am i. Sharing space.
Prayers in Silence
Your silence echoes off the emptiness
surrounding me. I feel it whispering
against my flesh, soft as a lover’s kiss.
You are in a temple; what prayers you speak
I cannot hear, too busy with my own
requests for strength, guidance on this journey.
Not alone, yet lonely, I wait – patient
in the knowledge that being together,
or separated, has its own meaning.
We share space in the darkness around us
as both search for elusive sleep and dream
of what was – wondering what may be next.
I wake, slip in and out of the bath, rinse
away fear of the future – in silence.
Comfort in Silence
I linger in the silence of prayer,
alone with whatever spirits surround—
unconscious of who or what they be. Soul
still in this attitude of prayer, my mind
meditates on past and future sins, sins
of commission, sins of omission, sins
knowingly committed, and those that wound
unmeaning, directed by will toward
other actions—desire for that which gods
and men deem outside the mores of where
and when I reside. Mind turns me toward some
other stream, a brighter one mercies-filled
in which I bathe and frolic like newborn
koi. I would linger here but for your grief.
Meditation
Esoteric words and thoughts elude me –
I’m struggling to comprehend this life,
existence, my future, in a place once
a home, now a house, I’m waiting to leave.
I don’t frolic, bathe in bright pools with prayer
or conscious-clearing meditation, walk
among the birches, firs and snow in clean
mountain air, crisp with new life and promise.
I don’t imagine either of us thought –
or expected – we’d occupy in these haunts;
and yet, here we are, together alone
with our musing, trying to understand.
My grief shifts from day into night, passion
not far from the surface – love mixed with pain.
These Haunts
Where we are is where we determine to
be—will takes us where we desire, should we
but decide to change our perspective. Mind
is a powerful thing, imagination
a vehicle to any state of mind;
these haunts are where we dwell, oh but our hell
need not be the only playground! Bright skies
beckon the soul open to cerulean
dream, and reality is where life meets
perspective. Should we dwell on our travails,
then hell is home; should we shift to focus
on opportunity, health, peace, and love,
then heaven welcomes us home in this life—
“It’s your choice, Babe . . .” Choose well, my one-time love.
Choices
I’ve been walking for weeks the path you laid
before me, unasked for and bent toward hell.
I’ve searched for a fork in the road and felt
the stab of a knife held tight to my flesh.
Your hand does not wield the blade; it’s self-doubt,
uncertainty colored with pain, a loss
so overwhelming my breath catches in
my chest, collapsing my lungs, making me
ignorant and blind to where I wander.
The desire to wrap myself in then,
the longing to be the woman I am
both battle within – yet, I see heaven
and I see hell both mirrored before me
– each taunts me with promises and passion.
© Siobhan
04-21-09
The Road to Hell
is not paved with good intentions so much
as it is cobbled with bad perceptions:
fault and guilt and recriminations we
heap or allow others to heap upon our
heads, hearts, and spirits are what drag us down
to what is the real hell—a suffering
of the human soul, tortured by itself
and by the words and intent of others
bent on a culture of control through shame . . .
Hell is a thing we do to ourselves, and,
unfortunately, to each other once we
learn enough to stab deep enough with stares
and darted words, turned shoulders, voices toned
just so . . . Hell’s course lies through shame’s expression.
Somewhere In-Between
Cobbling misinterpretation with
selective recall, we each lay the stones
along this path, self-determination
if it be to heaven or hell – somewhere
in-between. Words wound and scar, stab deeply
beyond flesh graced with tear-stains and eyes bruised
from sleepless nights. Dreams tortured by one look,
burnt to memory, and a tone of voice
that replaces whispers of love, the sweet
caress of eyes in features ever-dear.
No wish for another’s suffering, self-
preservation is the likely culprit;
the conductor on this mad dash to feel
– in some way, shape, or form – that we are loved.
Feeling Loved
Is it others that make us feel loved? Yes,
but that is not the total sum of feeling
loved; we have to accept the emotion,
and the actions, words, and intent behind
each in turn. Rejection is both a matter
of action and acceptance, words and words’
interpretations—of what its intent
and what its target. Rejection is strange
sometimes: we seem to reject another,
yet find in hindsight that only our self—
or our circumstance—was our intended
target. The real shame here is that often
others suffer collateral injury
from wounds intended only on ourselves.
Collateral Injury
What a terrible truth to learn! Hatred
bent inward exploded outward, and love
died from “collateral injury”. You,
though my hatred and wrath seemed personal,
were neither source nor enemy; you who
stood firm, who held faith, who stood by me, who
were wounded by the shrapnel of my self-
destruction—though I targeted you by
intention, mistaking you for the object
of my self-execration, were friend, ally,
lover, and more than I deserved . . . Your pain
another ton of my regret heaped in coals
and wanting for absolution or black
oblivion . . . I never meant your hurt to last—
beyond that moment.
Beyond the Moment
We damage with self-recrimination,
not seeing the injury inflicted
on one another until it’s too late;
until we slip along the edge, falling
to that black oblivion, unable
to hold on to this precarious place.
Beyond this moment, hope waits for us both –
whether wrapped once again within the love
we shared – birthed anew – or separated
and cradling memory as warmth
to which we cling when faith fades or life turns
a cold shoulder and blind eye to the hurt.
Away from here – the existence we shared –
I remain friend, ally – some day lover.
As I Am
While my downfall has been to feel as if
I am unlovable, if not pleasing
in word or deed, I’ve grown stronger through this.
Over years, you instructed me to be
aware of my worth – reject rejection,
accept myself and others would follow.
Bruised in ways no one else – save perhaps you –
could see, I whispered want and love, wishes
for you to see your reflection in mine;
understand and accept my love for you
as a sign of your own worth – and my own.
I’ve climbed to that elusive mountain top,
a struggle of acceptance and action,
and now shout – love me as I am – I do!
Love’s Casualties
Consider Love a war of attrition,
and we as soldiers on a field unknown—
unknowable—fighting apathy and
its allies in the trenches that are our own
souls and their strange psychic surroundings. One
fights one’s battles only against one’s own
self: mind and heart and spirit, self’s weapon
against ego—its own and others’—bone
and flesh and blood count nothing here, only
those parts unseen are wounded and slain here:
Love’s wounds bleed invisible, ‘neath holy
skin, black as sin, deeper though akin, sear
through flesh torn apart and often more sorely
than bullets and blades—bleed with every tear.
We Bleed
Times we cannot see that which is in front,
we look at the horizon, and wonder
what delights and mysteries wait beyond
its edges, neglect those who stand beside –
or behind – us; they are invisible.
We enter into battle, casualties
of need – of the search for independence.
We bleed for loss – lost love, lost heart and mind –
we bleed not knowing why we even fight;
we bleed for friends and enemies unseen.
The slow erosion of our self becomes
a weapon turned against our flesh and blood;
we feel the helplessness, are powerless
to stop, until it is – almost – too late.
© Siobhan
May 18, 2009
When It Is Too Late
It is too late. How many times must we
hear from each other how immutable,
intractable, irreconcilable are
our differences? (Not personally, but
in general.) And yet, and yet . . . life goes
on, and where life abides, change is always
constant and possible. It is the will
that determines changes’ path and purpose.
When it is too late, no breath shall breathe words
on which to will change, no will we know reaches
beyond the grave, save in words written for
posterity. Where life abides, changes
are the rule, stasis is impossible
in life’s swirling, ever-flowing currents.
In the Dark
Too late does not exist for me – could I
pick up the phone, dial a number to
have you beside me in this bed, I would
sprain a finger in the rush to call out –
yet fear pushes me back inside myself
I am alone… not necessarily
choice as much as desire to remain
unhurt for now – to heal from pain with which
I am both familiar and un – blocking
all but simple memory from my view.
It’ll be too late when neither of us
breathe a word to one another of love,
when neither whispers, in the dark, passion
and a sense of loss; when all else ceases.
When All Else Ceases
There are no whispers in the dark; the phone
remains silent in its cradle. The dark
presents its prison of loss. Walks in the park
are melancholy exercises alone;
night a mothridden nostalgia loadstone
that pulls me toward the wagon’s edge, its stark
reality unanswered void. No spark
can star skies closed in cloud as the trains moan
their blues to unheeding ears, crooners reft
of audience—heard yet unheeded? Time
makes liars of us all, and life proves out
Solomon’s admonitions. Meaning left
us cold, sensibilities alone, rhyme
slipped into oblivion. Perhaps doubt . . .
Poems Unheard
Lyrics from some not forgotten song plays
inside my head on walks alone at dusk.
I avoid traveling that path – our past;
the walk to the park pain-filled even now.
I rationalize away the need, use
the dog’s fatigue as an excuse to stay
close to home – ignoring my desire
to retrace steps crumbled into the dust.
The ache in my chest will be examined
by machinery and technology;
the doctor will diagnose the problem,
prescribe more pills or suggest surgery.
I’ll give in, knowing time will heal this and
whispers will remain soft poems unheard.
That Old un-Forgotten Song
A barely remembered tune, that haunting
memory of bygones gone by halts me
in my tracks: have I trodden here with thee?
To whom do I refer to as thee? Straining
the archaic pronoun—distancing
what might encroach on conscious memory,
recall to mind’s forefront some other me
I used to be. Who was he? How daunting
a task to remember what my heart shunned—
more recalling why. So I sit here stunned,
humming an un-forgotten song: my self
drowned in whiskey and time; down from the shelf
I pull our old hymnal and hum unsung
lyrics tear-eyed and stinging where they stung.