Tag Archives: memory

Hourglass

What is lost with life – our possessions,
our love, our heart, our intentions

May be found again in somber hands,
outstretched to catch our sifting sands,

The grains of our time tumbling in light,
ignite like fire eager, and over bright.

While the slag that falls past those fingers,
is gone forever, the memory still lingers.

By the end, so little of what was remains;
it is not what is, but what is not that pains,

So, we shield those fragments from the outside,
with the withered parts of us that still reside,

But in this sacrifice, all the light is lost,
we can shine no more, that is the cost.

Out of Mind, Out of Sight

Could you stash your memories in a secret box,
wrap them in chains and bind them with locks,
if it meant more memories could be made to fit,
in the space you’ve spent your life making for it?

Some thoughts grow and grow and grow
until those thoughts and those memories are all we know,
taking the place of the thoughts we should think now,
unless we can find a way to quiet them somehow.

“Perhaps if we feed them they will just go away,”
I hear a voice inside me meekly say,
but thoughts are like hungry cats pawing at your door,
no matter what you give, they still want more.

A friend told me not to think of them at all,
treat them no better than a fly on the wall,
but thoughts are bigger than flies, louder too,
and if you let them, they’ll hide, jump out and surprise you.

When I asked grown ups what to do, they said,
to find other thoughts or memories to make instead,
but some thoughts don’t like being alone,
and will steal the new ones to make them their own.

In the end I had to find for myself what to do,
because of all those I asked, no one ever really knew.
I held those memories close, whispered softly in their ear,
“I love you, but I need to move on. Don’t worry though, I’ll be near.”

And I gently tucked the thoughts away,
in a big cedar chest labeled, “for another day,”
so I could make new memories, keep the old ones at bay,
but go back to feed them or keep them company should my thoughts stray.

Singularity

The shadows feel like water.
The way they move around me,
reminds me of my daughters;
the light kept from them, the silhouette they see.

Prescient moments arise
lived backwards like memories,
rowing past soft pastel skies,
in the universe’s transient reverie.

A burst of life shines like hope,
feels compassionate like home,
the sober end of a rope,
that will throttle the throat when we are alone.

These moments shouldn’t be here,
any purpose they portend
defies the cadence once near.
We all curve in strange places as time bends.

Imposter

What.

Each meaningless line,
inherently out of context, out of time,
just marks on a page,
only named when needed;
given a value defined by desperate minds,
but worthless absent an observer.

Sometimes,
I can’t see past the scratches,
words I know,
that know me,
look strange and uncalled for;
a line of ships off a virgin shore,
hoisting unfamiliar flags,
smoke billowing from their cannons.

I defend myself with anger,
taking from it that worthlessness,
as if I owned it all along,
falling on that sword.
Surely, the word will make sense in time,
I’ll recognize it;
it, me.

Like crossed eyes finding their place,
I’ll remember its name,
where it came from,
what it is.

Surely,

what.

Middle of Nowhere

Solemn shadows
languish about
in the heat of a stale sun.
The world stretched out like taffy
yawning at the end of day.

Rust caked memories
cover everything the eye sees
red cataracts
over golden iris’
[keeping secrets]

A lone desolate road
lays against the earth
like an abandoned parade float
absent the anticipation of its creators
the pomp of its apogee.

No one is there to hear
the road signs speak,
every mile or so,
reminding would be travelers
where they have been-
where they go.

Whispers

Rude
               cracks
rolling
               waves
sharp ends
               break skin
a kindness
               from within
sold like lye
               and animal fat
after a hard rain
               what we say now
can’t be spoken again
               though the mouth will trace
its memory in the silence