"recounted" poems
The distant park
Was a graveyard of dead stars.
Each streetlight a system of worlds,
So many lives between each mote of light,
Indistinguishable in their unique love,
Bespoke hate, and the drama of the modern age.
Drunk laughter behind transparent
Double doors. Another hotel balcony,
Another cloud behind the canopy
Of marijuana eyes
To unsettle me from the crowd.
She points out, when you look closely
You can see the disorder
Amongst all constellations
Of life and love and litter;
Of discarded Coke cans
And temporary highs.
She says this is not a scene
To imbue the ****** of a present mind,
More to baulk at the incompletion
Of one thousand to-do lists;
A million reasons why
You should just stay inside.
She says you can see the human swell
Of ignorance, our city lights
Blotting out the stars
In a black ocean of broken politic
And irretrievable fault lines-
Divisions between us all.
Lives twisted with professional smiles
And eyes lit with stunning indifference.
Still, I have felt charity and warmth
On the doorstep of lunatics and fascists.
I have read the love of life
In faces of those who gave up.
I have recounted countless artists
Who saw beauty
In moments that precisely lacked it.
I have spent too many nights
In anaesthesia,
Fleeing each instance of feeling
And terror; all the tremors
That tell me I am still alive.
Continued to stare at the lights
Long after her voice
And the laughter inside had gone.
Heard waves in the traffic.
A world so large, so expansive,
It can never truly sleep.
Every broken heart,
Every war-torn land,
Every promotion,
Every one-night stand.
I wonder what would happen
If we all stood still.
If we all took one moment
To observe the motion
That unfolds beneath
Our static windowsill.
If we all took one moment
To recover our loss.
The wars that we won,
The feelings, forgot.
The hell we retain;
Our paradise, lost.
Feb 6, 2017
Feb 6, 2017 at 11:07 AM UTC
the count starts now (tired of tired)
I read your outcry at 3:00am
posted on Facebook
you are
tired of tired
sick of sick
the only question, will it ever end...
rise this day, start another way...
count your blessing
count against all odds
for there are more than merely one
use both hands
both hands chested to feel the heart thrusting,
for living is a wondrous blessing unique
an unbelievable to believe than so many beats,
born and borne,
by you, a strength unequaled,
you a richness possessed
count that one first.
count my hands holding your shoulders.
count that as two, one for me, one for you.
more? more.
mirror. find the tiny light in each eye against a yellow backdrop.
add two more. for they are a sparking confidence of confirming.
you felt the heart thrumming
go back, feel the breathing warmth breaching forth.
add another. for now known you can never ever be cold.
wash the face, wash away the caution that sleep leaves,
the coverlet of fear that fears you not to dare,
amazing that tap water plain is sacred when it
miracle breaks you out and anoints thy forehead with pure oil like the kings of yore, be a kingly human being.
go out. do not return
until one act of kind is performed and
count that as a thousand blessed, a sum recurring recounted
walk humble and the path will always appear.
walk contented for you can be both king and servant,
there is no difference - you must be both to be the other
one.
and if you still cannot raise the head,
call me.
that would be a blessing for me
and I will hear your blessings sounds mine merge,
dear friend and no more stranger,
that is the simplest definition of our learning to count to
infinity
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 4:33 AM UTC
HEAR YE HEAR YE:
It's a wedding bell for bedding well cause' we're crushin' the illusion of Russian collusion! CNN wets on Russian bedding but Trump bets on Russian wedding, and you're invited to the bridal shower. Punking the monkery, dig the debunkery; from Rasputin to Putin it's time for some straight shootin'. Hillary looks old and glowers at Donald's rumored golden showers. Our media owes US an explanation for streams of steaming urination, but we are willing to forgive and use their wet diapers as debt wipers. My poem's appeal may take a toll, but let its little peal now roll:
****** ****** rings the bell
A Fake News warning; time to spell
out what was wet with Moscow girls.
Putin's putas ? Wisdom's pearls
were pried from Truth's reluctant shell,
banishing Hillary straight to hell.
None. It's what we want left over
from this hag. We now discover
beds were dry; it all amounted
(all those golden tricks recounted)
to less than a tepid bowl of kasha. . .
Russia laughed from her summer dacha.
InfoWars was on it first
while Dems spun lies from false to worst,
awarding cash for faked dossiers
embellished with the CIA's
well-trained performing circus-seal.
The FBI endorsed the deal
as RINOS horned in on the action:
Washingtonian distraction;
a democrat-concocted fuss—
. . . but we ALL paid Hillary to **** on us.
Oct 26, 2017
Oct 26, 2017 at 4:47 PM UTC
Art Bouchard,
My father,
Never marched a drill,
Nor fired an angry shot...
Recounted fond memories
I've heard so many times:
How long ago, when I was very young,
He and our neighbor,
Art Pribnow,
Up before the sun,
Engaged in tractor battles
(Dad was very sure he won).
My father woke those mornings,
Early 1960s,
With the popping cough of
Worn diesel pistons
Clattering out white smoke...
Then blue and black,
As engine heat and friction
Tightened gaps,
Sealed compression,
And the motor steadied into an even roar.
Across the county road
Our only neighbor led or followed suit,
Sending smoke and sound
To drown the morning songs
of meadowlarks and robins.
Fifty years later,
Dad laughed in recollection,
"We started rising just a little
Earlier each day.
Started up our tractors
In a sort of game
Called, 'Who's out first?'"
Six became a quarter of,
Then five-thirty backed to four.
One tractor or the other roared,
Early and then earlier
To be the first to pull
Into the waiting fields.
When three-thirty came around
My mother shook her head,
But if she said a word,
I never heard.
These battling neighbors
Even started engines up
Before they ran,
Milking buckets swinging,
to their barns to chore
As early became earlier
in the little farmers' war.
One day in town,
By happenstance,
A meeting came between the two.
My father, being younger,
Had energy for more,
But old Art Pribnow shook his head,
Grabbed my dad's hand and said,
"Let's stop this foolishness
Before one of us is dead!
I don't know about the hours you keep,
Or what got in our heads,
But I admit, I need my sleep!"
The farmer battle ended then.
A hand shake and a smile
Between two farmer friends,
Created country lore,
Remembered here a little while,
As, "The Early, Earlier War."
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 9:04 PM UTC
In 1963
Mahalia prodded
the good reverend...
“tell them
about the dream
Martin”
transfixed on
a yonder time
he recounted
prophecies of
a near future
from a mountaintop
he foretold a
history of a people
returned again to
gardens of paradise
thriving in friendly
democratic soils
overflowing with a
colorful biodiversity
governed and
nurtured with a
vibrant sunshine
of divine justice
welcoming all
weary sojourners...
from the
pinnacle of
a Birmingham
jail cell
Martin burst
the bars with
the clarion peel
of a golden trumpet
proclaiming the gospel
of liberation to
the wardens of
unholy gulags
“free yourselves”
the horn emblazoned
in streaking lightning
across the sky
cowed by
prophetic truths
of righteousness,
shamed by
lies the pride
of arrogance
bespeaks to
placate the
intransigence
of dominion,
we prayed the
the walls of racism,
bigotry, prejudice
would tumble down as
Martin lit the Battle
of Jericho
today our country’s
profit driven gulags
overflow with people
of color as justice
lingers on death row
begging for a plea bargain
of a life sentence in
solitary confinement...
from the
****** Sunday Bridge
in Selma, Martin
offered a prayer for
peace, rebuking
the dogs of war
admonishing
the tenders of
blood thirsty
machines to
beat the gears
of war into
pruning hooks
and plowshares
advocates of peace
hope to steer
the plow across
the battlefields of
acrimony to sow
rich seeds of
reconciliation, planting
new gardens where
the rich yields of peace
will be consumed
by all God's children
yet these gardens
remain unplanted,
untended and defiled
by the machinery
of war that churns
churns, churns...
Martin last
dream occurred
on a balcony
in Memphis
witnessing
to the divinity
of those considered
untouchable after
a hard days work
collecting a city’s
refuse
he insisted all labor
was worthy of dignity
and the economic
justice of a fair wage
Martin looked squarely
into the eye of the gun sights
of those who thought differently
he never blinked, he dreamed
Martin formed his last
testament to an angry nation
yearning for the reconciliation
of stability and peace,
unmoved that it’s violence,
exploitation and bigotry only
stoke bonfires of acrimony
and division, condemning
the reprobate principality
to the bleakness of a
smoldering discontent and
continued generations
of recurring nightmares…
Martin's dream continues
in awakened hearts
sojourning on
Music Selection:
Mahalia Jackson
Joshua Fit the Battle of Jericho
MLK Day
2014
Oakland
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 3:38 PM UTC
why i am an only child?
you have to ask the Polish women
who were forced to drink iodine....
1986...
Chernobyl...
it spread to Poland from the Ukraine...
a "rainbow" effect,#as my great-grandmother
recounted...
in the local park?
streaks... of autumnal trees
in their full bloom decay,
and the furthest green in summer...
a strange time...
why wouldn't my mother have
more children?
i guess, in fear of breeding a ******
pro-life, what?!
you raise them!
see how they turn out when
you're dead!
god's "grace"...
you ever curate the fate
of your grandmother?
well then!
now you know!
nature is ruthless!
man attempting to
overcome it?!
you know
what nature does?
i know what nature does...
steam-roller and...
somehow the most vocal speakers
are those daring to
question the feathers
of a macaw parrot...
substituting it with
fashion trends...
mort in concencus,..
vive in conscissio...
i might have been born with
a sibling...
but i wasn't...
the Scandinavian countries learned
of it,
from under, beneath the iron curtain...
and who can actually blame Gorbachev?
when the U.S.S.R. was made
dissolute?
and no war took the zeitgeist
garments of a pope's approval?
no cardinal red,
with Attila's river...
who is to blame,
the scolded transition period of peace?
no one unless my grandfather can
understand the peaceful transition
of the disintegrated U.S.S.R.,
into a Russian Fed.?
no one?
but the women of Poland
and the Ukraine? still had
to drink iodine...
and i am...
i am...
i am...
i will always be...
the long lost cousin of the Chernobyl
geblüt;
there is not concept of
a butterfly effect...
when it comes to the query of an,
atomic reactor!
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 10:50 PM UTC
Sick and cyclical memories linger, how unjust it seems
In somber city streets, her father's name she screams
When the fix is late and her body sodden and shaking
Her childhood recollections waking, every joint aching
Falling on tarmac, tearing stockings and fleshy knees
Through the distant mist it's a saviour that she sees
Marvin on a white steed, motorbike and leathers
To get her straight he only requires her nethers
What difference could it make to such a worn woman
So little that her eyes glaze as he announces his comin'
And she's immediately put to work after initial transaction
All night shifts, ****** abstraction, customer satisfaction
Returning 'home' to Marvin where the earnings are counted
Giggling schoolgirl as playful stories of John's are recounted
And Marvin's insatiable perversions are compounded
****** cocktails and deviancy, her psyche confounded
The **** sleeps blissfully beside his new top girl
And through ****** daze, she examines her world
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 9:51 PM UTC
The cockroaches surrounded but one
Fair
Maiden;
Seeking Singapore and suns absent the, “other.”
I kicked one, her infernal and insect aside, oh
Fair
Maiden;
Fleeing his promise and same mistake I’d made prior.
So to, the unspoken alliance ensues, both sought and awry, our –
Recounted
Freedoms
Born the dogs that are kicked and the dogs bite back.
Veil and anew, below and bellied-up bugs;
Fair
Maiden
Conquered, “yes,” but, agreed, our ulterior master born body.
We no longer fear and be gone the spiny legs,
Fair
Maiden;
For carrion’s a distance and the fruit’s now atop nose;
We’ve learned to love again.
Note - Smog-soaked sunsets at, "Rebel Rebel," in Guangzhou used to make for the greatest shards of diary I've ever encountered. In this case, she was running away from him and I was running away from her - we'd the same story, the same drink, and soon the same table. I should visit again, someday.
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 10:37 AM UTC
Eskimos have a Gazillion
words for snow. We have
teraflop words for coffee.
Wikipedia it!
But don't get distracted
by the Tales.
Recounted stories of empires
held together by zeitgeist brand,
a belief, a set of ritual,
buying in bulk, a role of thumb,
opposable heuristics.
They've clustered history
in bunches like expanding
matter, as if it matters
who was king or Augustus.
Empires & civilization
held colloidal by the quirks
of geology and brand
feeding food-forward
with ritualistic sacrifice
in Megazillion iterations.
From Fertile crescent to Nile
Valley silicon, when we bind
ourselves to brand,
and move in belief,
secure in synchronized stability,
then comes the rubric cubes
miraculously built high
upon slave backs, holding
pyramidal server tombs.
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 9:14 PM UTC
In darkened dream, my walk was halted,
confronted by a tree,
It stood upright, a branch outstretched
and blocked the path on me.
In circumventing sideways dance
I edged in grass quite slow,
but a craggy root handcuffed me,
and would not let me go.
I stood in shocked drawn silent gaze,
unsure of where to turn,
This tree had pulled me tighter now,
it fought my urge to run.
But then it spoke in ancient voice,
in tones of guttural flow.
Dark words in wood translation,
spoke of a poisoned stream below.
The leaf on every branch now shivered,
in worried recounted tale,
as it described through words so clear
what caused its bark to fail.
A darkened tale of toxic waste,
a legacy untold.
of man's destructive story,
where greed and fear unfold.
Water table now unset
In (fractured gas) halation.
Land is sold and cracked
in tempted cash flirtation
War for oil in scarlet lands,
where majors lived at base.
The youth in pointless sacrifice,
to save the political face.
Where poverty prevailed amid
abundant arable nations.
and the silent cries of children
skewed charitable donations.
Air of grey, fermented
with pollen soft pollution.
Chokes of spluttered ash,
cast doubt on evolution
This tale of woe recounted
by nature's mother-tree
with roots now losing hold
while balanced grip on me.
Swaying branch quite dangerously
in forgotten leafy youth.
this once majestic elder falls,
unburdened by this truth.
It died in pain where it had grown
drowned slow in poisoned stream.
a fading track on reddened skin
where its handcuffed branch had been.
I straightened up and stumbled on
relieved it had let me go.
My eyes in shock, slowly adjusted
To wood in flat plateau.
I cast my eyes in horizoned view
not believing what I'd seen.
The wood in matchsticked pattern
where once proud kings had been.
The landscape now lay barren,
with wood strewn all around.
The stench of rot erupted
from muddy blackened ground.
I wandered off to tell the tale,
of being confronted by this tree,
unsure of what just happened
or why it had chosen me.
I walked for miles in desolate,
through air starved atmosphere.
but met no one along this road,
a winding pot-holed frontier.
I walked until I finally woke.
in spluttered inhalation.
Confused, I feared this reality,
of earth's final damnation.
In darkened dream, my walk was halted,
confronted by a tree,
Awoke, its tale will linger,
forever haunting me
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 3:12 PM UTC
When lightning has struck me
eighty-two times
I want to hear everything
and on the eighty-third
hear nothing but
the most precious of memories.
I hope I can recount stories
of our embarrassing proposal
and the angry Presbyterian ministers
performing the ceremony
because in twenty-two and a half
years I have never once believed
my grandparents loved each other,
but last night the second Julian
recounted he and Lavern's saga
of a marriage that ended in
four fuck-ups and decades of
disappointment
with the most agreeable disposition-
even for a man dying
of too much salt in his diet.
I only hope someone will love me
enough to eat bland food
and our grandson's vegetables one day.
Dec 27, 2012
Dec 27, 2012 at 9:01 PM UTC
with Mary.
I was seduced
in Barnes & Noble,
lured to the poetry section
next to coffee and pastries.
I touched her Blue Iris,
fondled her Red Bird
and recounted why
she wakes to watch
the early sunrise.
She looked better than I remembered
in a brown jacket
with a striking
emblem of a bear
on the front.
She took me to her tent
near Truro
and told me of turtles, toads,
hermit *****
and her fear
of ridding her garden
a small harmless snake.
I spill my passion
on the ground — our bed for now — beside her.
Under her cover
she shares phrases,
moles, verbs,
and curves
of sweet new perceptions.
We are intimate beyond belief.
Her verbal kisses
bring sweat to my palms.
I’m high, hallucinating
on Mary
my drug of choice.
I’m having an affair
with Mary Oliver.
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 10:10 PM UTC
John wrote,
I read the news today...
He recounted accidents, wars, pot-holes.
I did too... today.
I read about charity runs,
Music under the Bluewater Bridge,
Teachers receiving National Awards.
There are many sections to the paper
I read through my wire-rimmed glasses.
I'm getting older, all the time,
So I avoid the nastiness with my morning coffee.
Is killing terrorists good news?
Oh boy!
What would John read into that.
We need some help!
I may skip the news tomorrow,
And make some holes
To let the light in,
The darkness out.
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 10:18 AM UTC
do you remember when we talked
about the capacity of our hearts
how it can be bigger
than our own bodies
capable of swallowing
entire galaxies
like a sun
exploding, burning
devouring everything
in its wake
when we wondered, desperately
where to keep all this love
inside of us
threatening to spill
everywhere
anywhere it could go
if it had a place to stay
and welcome it home
when we recounted histories
of loves lost and found
of foolishness and folly
of hearts breaking
with the magnitude of earthquakes
shattering into the debris
of our memories
only resurfacing if
they are dug up
with tender hands
when revelations were spoken
recognizing all the mistakes
naming all of the hurt
one by one
and saying,
"i've known you"
and it is beautiful
all of it, the whole of it
some sort of sobriety
after what feels like a lifetime
under the drunken influence
of our hearts
in another universe
there would be versions
of ourselves
who have chosen
to be content.
but here,
here
our hearts are bigger
than our bodies
and they can break
with the magnitude of earthquakes
and in our stubbornness
we will choose to hurt,
to ache, to yearn
and yet
we will always dive heart-first.
Oct 5, 2021
Oct 5, 2021 at 8:51 AM UTC
He called to straighten her out,
To announce his disappointment.
In no uncertain terms, he rammed it home,
Her failure to notify him was inexcusable.
He blasted her, recounted his disappointment,
“You were supposed to visit, you said you’d stop by.”
He shrieked, “Our friendship is a ruse, a joke to you,
You fooled me, I thought you cared.”
Overwhelmed, wordless, she, lost in his pain,
Was defenseless, knew no proof would suffice,
Understood the meaning, guilty as charged.
She listened silently, finally, felt a shift,
His rage discharged, breathless, indignant,
He awaited her pathetic excuse.
With a shallow breath she illuminated him.
A single, empty, cabin,
On a distant island,
Barren, cold, alone,
Marooned.
***** you!” down he slammed the phone.
Nov 26, 2011
Nov 26, 2011 at 9:14 AM UTC
<>
thirty years apart/making love at the midpoint/Zeno's minding the gap
<>
*we are a thrifty thirty years apart
but we make love as if it were an
after school, really hungry, special snack
laugh at myself once again
for this tom, **** 'n harried foolishness
knowing no good can come of this
other than what has already
come and gone,
life's reaffirmation is not age dependent,
we love in the light of embers brightest glow
the older man is at the midpoint trap of
Zeno's Paradox^
can never grow down to be
closer to her to her youth,
given his head start,
his slowing motion,
can never catch
her down,
or she,
up to him
physics laws forcibly insist they both have lost this race*
"In a race, the quickest runner
can never overtake the slowest,
since the pursuer must first reach the point
whence the pursued started,
so that the slower must always
hold a lead. "
as recounted by Aristotle, Physics VI:9, 239b15
*too quick to be born,
now the fastest and oldest,
though having reached
the equidistant point between,
will forever never be able to
close the gap
I mind the gap,
I mine the gap
for rousing poems,
from passion piercing fierce love making
prayers preserving the falsity of a
magic illusion of a growing nearness
that we will never grow apart,
burdened that truer is,
never ever closer
she asks me with great tenderness,
why I moisten mine eyes
after our great joy
replying, honestly
I am minding the gap
answers the broken joyous
poet of now, no way*
<>
"Mind the gap" ( listen (help. · info)) is an audible or visual warning phrase issued to rail passengers in the United Kingdom (and elsewhere) to take caution while crossing the horizontal, and in some cases vertical, spatial gap between the train door and the station platform.
^https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zeno%27s_paradoxes
Jul 24, 2016
Jul 24, 2016 at 7:44 AM UTC
Don't ever get down at Remount Road
on the train's brief pause.
Once I couldn't resist
when through the window
I can't say what beckoned me.
The sky after a drizzle was awashed blue
and its miniature carvings on the puddles
sprung from my steps like thousand dreams.
There on the unshaded platform
were faces as puzzled as mine.
I didn't intend to detrain here, I spoke,
we didn't too, the voices echoed
but it felt so like the place
we wanted to be but missed.
Walk me barefoot on the sodden earth,
a girl offered her hand,
recount to me the unfinished stories,
make me a home.
I won't miss this time,
I was crying.
I have recounted the story to many
but they all have eyed me
like I am mad.
They only repeat there's no Remount Road
on this route.
Apr 12, 2018
Apr 12, 2018 at 11:24 AM UTC
A morning philosophical conversation
approached the hard euthanasia question..
A saddened room as several with tears
recounted their special tragedies..
their own close life endings..
Other reflections revolved around
considerations of laws and rights..
troubled preferences for dark
decisions made now...
An afternoon wildfire with exploding fury
a sudden jump of canyon walls
raged into a city surprised..
Mass evacuations.. decisions right now..
demands of how to choose life..
Still many transfixed by the terrible beauty..
orange..billowing.. burning.. chaos...
Assessments reach both forward and back..
questions of rehearsals for future nows..
inadequacies of many decisions past..
Somehow in our heat today.. a continuing
blaze not yet contained..
new awareness..an urgent plea..
to experience life's beauty and
constricting pain.. already enclosed
in an expectant now...
Jun 28, 2012
Jun 28, 2012 at 1:56 PM UTC
It comes now without
preamble or announcement,
On the ending of the poignant
symphonic overture,
Or, the melodramatic moments,
of a romantic drama on TV.
A sunrise or sunset can do it.
A story retold with child innocence
recounted by one of my grandsons,
can bring me to my emotional knees.
My son calls it the result of my brain
operation a few years ago,
This emotional tearing up,
of my excess humanity.
I like to think it is a reward of sorts,
a blessing of age and well-earned maturity.
Sensing the end of the long traveled road,
gives my humanity, a focused clarity.
Mar 13, 2016
Mar 13, 2016 at 5:02 PM UTC
last night i laid in bed next to my sister
and recounted the ways we had both
tried to squeeze ourselves
into the sausage casing
society said we should fit into
how she spent 2 years waiting
until 2 pm to allow her body nourishment
how i had made it to 27 and suddenly
had the epiphany that i could
starve myself to the size i wanted be
how our father and grandfather
spent endless moments passing
judgments on our bodies and
smashing us into the ground
with each pound that graced our wide hips
how she told everyone she
was a runner, but couldn't
hide from her roommates worried
glances at her bones poking through
workout clothes that never got a
drip of sweat on them
how i taught young girls to love
themselves day after day,
while i shook and trembled from
the lack of love i had for myself
last night we laughed about how
skewed our views had become
from our grandma and mother
telling us their weight, analyzing
their curves in the mirror as we
laid in their beds watching and learning
i vowed to harbor a warrior in my
womb one day who i could speak
freely with about the horrors of
self hatred and hopefully instill
a strong foundation of faith in self
i hope one day i raise someone
who never looks in the mirror and
wishes pieces of herself away
i hope one day i raise someone
who sees herself fully, not just as a shell
of a human worth nothing more than
the label on her clothes and
the number on the scale
i hope one day i raise someone
who sees herself most worthy of love
Jun 10, 2016
Jun 10, 2016 at 10:02 PM UTC
Oh hunter be hunted for who is the prey?
Did you stalk her to trap her ?
Get snared on your way.
Did she tease you to catch you an invisible foe.
As you can't see her will you ever know.
Oh hunter be hunted you are the pray!
But only if you continue to play in her game.
Did you try to be silent to cover your tracks?
She followed your scent and is close to your back.
Oh hunter recounted oh hunter beware she just plays mind games and she isn't there.
Oh hunter "Be" hunted for now it's despair !
Walk away from this madness before you are hurt
So hunter oh hunter decision to make, track now a picture or leave this lost place.
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 5:21 PM UTC
He came to me with a cry of help
in his voice and his demeanor,
I felt a feeling too dreaded
Empathy
So lost on human souls that it is weakness
I listened to his tale
an accident,
a sister in need
I went with him, understanding coursing through my foolish mind
And we walked
And we waited
And we parted
Later, after I had recounted my story to others
I had learned
Scandal, lies,
a robbery
I had lost everything and more
The good deed I had committed was a lie,
a farce
I had helped him and been ravaged
My empathy and understanding
filled instead with pure rage
I had been nice
I would no longer
and if I saw him again
well, nothing…...
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 2:40 AM UTC
I went to my friend
almost afraid to expose the need
I found as I read the book,
not knowing if he would be deaf to it.
As I spoke of my father
who was not there
to show his boy how to be a man
I recounted my losses
and the load of grief I felt.
My sadness clung to me
a heavy suit of chainmail on a dark knight.
I could feel my face
drooping in lamentation
unable to be the smiling grinning buddy
I normally brought to the room.
Seemingly unable to enter into my pain,
my friend, a man of great intellect, character and conviction,
responded only with a litany of his own.
I tried to listen but my burden
made it a mighty climb.
Now I know my pal is only human
and I am wrestling
with my self
sweating MY
deafness.
Jan 28, 2023
Jan 28, 2023 at 1:50 AM UTC
A Bridge
As a teenager we lived on a rented farm just one hill over we started down the property of the adjacent
Farm at the bottom of the hill we came across the remains of a bridge nothing was left but the steel it
Was rusty and there was so much undergrowth it would have been missed if we had been walking
Fifteen feet to either side it created a mood the knowing that at a time in the past others commonly
Traveled this as a road of necessity now I think of the pastor’s words when he spoke my mother went
From the horse and buggy to the space age yes what a trip in this hidden now forgotten bridge and road
The weeds and nature reclaimed what man disturbed the life once lived now lost and forgotten a finality
Of crossing a bridge a future layered with progress change a different order for sure idyllic days the
pace slower more deliberate harder because modern conveniences were still in the future but there is
A raw connection when you work closely with animals put the harness on the team of horses the barn
A few bins of grain a hay mount with fresh hay how the ladder is worn from use smooth and shinny we
Will tone it down the slight hint of manure straw in the stalls mix it all together it makes up the whole
Farm with a theme of richness and then the memory of their voices even some conversations are
Remembered it can involuntarily bring stillness to today’s hustle and bustle of speed and their white hair
Wasn’t a point of disdain but one of honor you looked upon them as heroes hanging on each word they
Spoke slow and even recounted earlier days times and there content held you spell bound and it wasn’t
Just because you were young and easily impressed you stood in the middle of the bridge of time you
Flowed back and then they would shift and speak of the future then you flowed on this wave of
Expectation of what the future would hold guarding your mind from the awful truth that you would be
Alone because their journey as glorious as it was had the markings of coming to an end but in the mean
Time they filled your world with thrills and contentment and for the rest you looked forward to the day
When you would meet them on the bridge that started in time and the far end was eternal never would
You know separation again
Nov 17, 2011
Nov 17, 2011 at 11:08 PM UTC
The day leaves me somewhat melancholy
Due to a story I heard recounted.
It's about a life, a love, a death observed
By a stranger across a garden.
From afar she saw the pieces played
Unfolding as the months went by.
From happiness and living pleasant lives
To weakness, despair and loss.
I, just a random listener with a radio
The story makes me pause.
I identified with the tragic soul
Not the observer from afar.
Do I stop and reconsider now
The path on which I live?
Do I think ahead and enjoy this
Comfort and security while it lasts?
We're curious things, we humans
When confronted with mortality.
Loath to break free of our routines
And so to face possibilities so dire.
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 5:38 PM UTC