A Meaningful Story

Our stories disappear
And fade into quick oblivion
Leaving us with no meaning in our lives
Only to be reborn, reread and rewritten
By those who sense a resurgence of meaning
When they string together
Through strands of time
The charms of little nothings.

The problem is:
Nobody asks them
For whom stories have faded
What is it that keeps them from dying?
What remains in feeling, in essence, in residue?
Do they now understand reality?
And if they do…
Do they think it’s a meaningful story?

Placebo

The swallowed drink
With a shot of lime
Works its way within
And in no time

All my knots, my tensions
Come undone
I announce to the world
“I’m ready for some fun!”

“Life is good,” I say
And my mates agree
And we raise our
Glasses in cheer

We laugh, we tease
We jibe in fun
Crackling with wit
And intended pun

Much is spoken
Much is said
With great bravado
Without any dread

A drink permits
Both sinner and saint
To speak his heart
Without restraint

A tavern is a place
Designed for the game
Of people forgetting
All title and name

But all seasoned drinkers
A secret know
That the infamous drink
Is really a placebo.

Before You Entered, After You Left

I’ve seen events,
momentous as they were
fade away

I’ve been gripped by
affections, I thought were
for keeps

I’ve lost so much
to time, but I haven’t
lost presence…

I now understand
that the gifts
of time

Are not things
that are born and that
can die

But are those
that remain, when all
has left.

Time can’t take away
what it hasn’t
brought in.

See-through

I’ve come to see
That your kind words
Don’t stick
Neither do your opinions
Cause anything more than a fleeting awkwardness.
My deliverance from smallness-
(Sorry to disappoint you)-
Needs a more sophisticated design.

In a world of sound and fury
I wonder why silence exists
Why does it stay
And not leave?
Even when it is abused,
Ignored: not acknowledged
I befriend silence
And Understanding begins to claim its space within.

Now an expanse
It provides me with distance
And light
That can penetrate through smallness
And darkness
Your little schemes
Are not as tight in weave
As you think them to be.

Your body may be dressed
In fancy styles tailored to fit
But you are clueless about
The size and shape of your mind
Or its persona that challenges
Your ideas of who you are
Your little pretensions
Don’t cover it at all

You stand exposed
Your words are see-through.

Now that It’s Over

So much is over…
Who swallowed those capsules of time?
And if it’s over and gone
Why does memory live…?
…like a persistent ache
…like a question left unanswered…

Is my change true and final?
If I wasn’t that
Then am I certain I’m this?
Memory is seductive
It beckons me to return
A smoke that suggests a hidden flame…

I stand somewhere in between
What was and what seems to be
Baffled that neither is my ground
I’m wondering then…
What is my truth?
And what skin will cling to me

When this moment too, is over.

Remembrance Is Not Memory

Unaware of my truth

I created memories

Memories of me

Memories of you

Memories of sorrow…

And now

These memories torment me

They remind me of

Why it’s safer

To collapse, to suffer, to hide…

I watch a bird

Fearlessly stand on the ledge

Confident

That the chance of falling

Poses no threat.

I wonder…

Just for a moment

What must I remember

To find my wings when

I’m standing on a ledge overlooking memory.

Sunset

The light that had pervaded

the experiences

That I have come to describe

as my life

Had gathered itself into

a saffron orb

And now it stood before me-

all wise and glowing

All earthly latitudes

and longitudes

Mapping it in a poetic alignment

with the strains of my heart.

 

What does all this mean

I wondered…

Why is my life on a sprint

Appearing…disappearing…?

Why does my day begin

and end?

Why do our lives begin

and end?

What dawns and

What sets?

What exactly is gained and

what precisely is lost?

 

It’s in space and light that

my days unfold

And the stories that have

begun today

Will advance in plot

and complexity

Over days infused with

new light

But will I know

any better?

If not a day like this

What will a day of wisdom look like?

 

And now I’m thinking of

new questions

Does light have hope?

Do I disappoint her?

Does she expect me to meet her

with less indifference?

In what light must I see-

the light of the day?

Now that the day stands condensed before me

as the setting sun

I’m wondering about all the darkness

It has left me with…

 

Light will merge into light

It’s darkness that will live yet again

For a life-span of a night.