Blog Archives

Hope and Future and Chance

The pain of his past rested on the front of his eyes,
Memory tempted then mocked and let loose in droplets.
Where now can pale usefulness express its wont?
How will tomorrow find reason inside old couplets?

Full-time folly found rest upon the other slack shoulder,
And swirling, the promise and the lie presented opportunely;
Yet a path coursed beyond the copse, bidding one to follow;
New memory scorned to breach history, to grow jejunely.

An old minstrel parsed a chord, and improved;
The song of song that choirs failed yet chimed aloud;
While pan wrens sauntered and soared ever above,
Dodging the eagles, falling, sprinting to eclipse yon cloud.

Tears will dry with hope and future and chance rekindled;
Goats may prance upon thatched roofs, high and mighty,
But the parson-chaplain rises early to great the new day,
And pale usefulness finds expression, keen and rightly.

Just Dance

Some poems are wine lyric
Two goblets Clos du Bois
Others are simple syrup
Just so much blah, blah, blah

Now some too-humble wrought lines—
An old wrenched heart softly pines

Heart-tears gathering inside
Aching to let go and fall;
Words mocking a conscience
Of feelings so cold t’would appall

Terpsichore blanches, and then wilts,
Suffers in her marble a new deep fault:
Who can answer for these deaths?
Young stars ripped from the celestial vault

Haruka and Meechaiel pas de deux—
What are we all ever going to do?

The pain lingers…
The words won’t come…
Broken thoughts slip chalky fingers;
The glib finally struck dumb

How to unsee a sunset?
How to unhear the rain?
Where do we put these feelings?
Where do we plant the pain?

A far lightening pirouettes across your glance—
Dance for Haruka, dear friends…just dance

Heading To Sunset Ridge

Heading to Sunset Ridge
Can’t remember your name
Can’t remember much about me
Everyone goes what a shame

Taking the turn around Memory Lane
Or is it Lost Pine or somewhere else
But can you still see my nice smile?
That far ringing? Are those my bells?

But I will sit on this here bench
Don’t know this path anyways
You’re my son or daughter?
They said it was one of his better days

Playing my part in the Long Long Goodbye
Just succeeded through these 7 years
No thank you for your sweetly offered hankie
But these are needed welcome relieving tears

Heading over Sunset Ridge
Everyone go “What a shame.”
My name is Mr. Still Loving Parent
At least, I think that was his name

–In humble salute to the loved ones of my wonderful patients, PEOPLE with alzheimer’s

Happy New Tears

Randee runching;
Maybe no more;
Overtime is such a bore…
Ringing roses,
Puddin’ pie,
Don’t bother asking,
I never’ll know why.
Where we going,
The sun is past set?
This is the best New Years
We’ve cried over yet.
Chords drip across my tearshut ears
And I’ve gone and lost the beat:
Did Father really say,
“DON’T CROSS THE STREET!”?
Did the spanking really hurt?
Or was the betrayal worse?
I’d used my young thinking mind,
But that turned into a squirmy curse—
Don’t be too smart!
How could you be so dumb?!
Turning all the right-wrong ways;
I’m getting kinda wrong-right numb.
Randee runching;
Maybe no more;
You remember the way to the door?

It Will

Pity you couldn’t stay
You could’ve had me for a song
But of course you couldn’t stay
You couldn’t be away for so long
Your sister was nigh passing
A transition to a better place
You were there to hold her hand
You were there to stroke her face
To tell her don’t be afraid
To tell her everything’s okay
And you’ll be there so soon
And it’ll be a better day

Funeral home-bitter tears-cremation
Death’s clean industry will never end
You did your hard, honored part
Your Love and Spirit did well attend

Grieve, all should and will now
Love will take her keen shrouded bow
Hold onto the memories small and pale
You walk the path of an old, holy trail

Please, don’t be afraid
Please know everything’s okay
And all will be whole soon
And it’s already a better day

A Horsie of Orange and Blue

Papa come play;
Papa put down your cares today.
Are you really so sad as that?
Did all those days leave you cold and flat?
Papa, tell me no more of that war;
Papa, yes, there are better things in store.
Try not to leave me with your weeping back;
Yes, I see you cry, I see the tears’ crisscross track.
Papa, were they all your friends?
Papa, not all met very bad ends;
Some of you did at last come home—
Some happy, though others are still lost, and roam…
Papa come play;
Papa, look what I drew for you today:
With crayon, a horsie of orange and blue.
O Papa, Mommy and I really love you.
Little Isabelle cradled in her tired Papa’s lap, and one good arm;
Papa pushed out a smile: Father and daughter were now safe and warm.

For Our Veterans: thank you isn’t nearly enough! Bless You!

Across A Far River

Back down around the ole oaken bridge,
Hazel and I tried really, really long
To cross together over that forever ever ridge,
Separating Love from the rest of the wrong,
But handily, hardly, barely, we surely did fail—
Living on so as to shame the curse.
Corked wine and rained out Saturdays
Don’t hurt near as much as her sad, sweet smile.
Tis trying to find carpe diem all the while,
But there is banana bread, it remembers.
And it’s back down around that ole oaken bridge:
Where Hazel crossed over, and left me in tears,
Wallowing in the wrong;
Chasing the horror left over, numbed to us in years—
The creping ashes blew over acorns, the whole span long.

Crosstown

I fell in a hole inside myself*
But I’m looking for the way out.
Here I stand next to you,
Why can’t you hear me shout?
“Hug me! Help me! Like me!”
“Why am I still here?!”
[After all this gnawing time,
Shouldn’t things be more clear?]
Trauma is an overwhelming negative event*
Frozen up in your deep insides*—
Tears are the trauma as it melts,*
Getting better in slips and slides.
I found myself outside my hole
I’m sorry for all the fuss,
But, thanks for just being there
And getting me back on Life’s Crosstown Bus.

* Lines paraphrased from On living with depression and suicidal feelings | Sami Moukaddem | TEDxLAU

Surely Not

Passed the cutoff for sycamore creek
up round about the CR 245;
down 71, looking for deerpath way—
it wasn’t like I was lucky to be alive.

Blew out the front right firestone
traveling at or around the posted speed;
came to stop beyond cypress creek—
changing the tire wasn’t that much of a deed.

But jacking the 2004 was half a bit harder
as the tears fell out about my taut reserve;
seems the bells had just begun to ring—
what high truth do the chimes preserve?

Back down the road at half passed the rain
needing a bathroom stop something awful,
like I knew might not ever see them again;
exited at a station in a manner not quite lawful.

Email said it simple, nothing quite so very grand:
she was taken at 5:11pm to the seton highland.