Is omneity even a word…

Imagine the memories of pain and hurt,
discomfort, disappointment and sorrow
didn’t just dissolve as they tend to, but
were stored-up, like a single collection
which stayed with you – a pool of tears,

embarrassments, losses, frustrations
and fears teaming with every dread,
every haunt of what has ever happened
and harmed the hope of comfort and
confidence that all’s well with the world

or at least tolerable; sure, some do
linger but the sting eases away somehow
and recollections fade, or else the
assemblage of broken bones, cuts
and bruises, stubbed toes and loves
lost would crush you, as poverty ruins
through an abundance of nothing;
there’d be no hauntless nights, not a

single pleasant day, courage would be
ridiculed and driven to despair by the
burden of history repeating itself
because our crimes against humanity
are as simple as living through it all;

so consider it a mercy to lack a sense
of permanence like an infant puzzled
by an object hidden, taunted with the
Where did it go? game we all play
and bless the benevolent omneity for
the freedom to forget, if not forgive.

One hundred pockets…

Nietzsche_1882-59d83beeaad52b0010eb91ccIf a man has a great deal
to put in them,
as Friedrich would say,
a day will have a hundred pockets;
and that’s another way
of saying it’s up to you,
the day, that is,
life, that is,
to acquire what may be
known, what may
be enjoyed,
with an appetite insatiable,
to possess but not deny,
for knowing is not
a zero sum game of have
and have not,
but an unending feast for the starving,
and we are all, always,

To the end of the world…

WalkingThe world ends somewhere,
I know it does;
not sometime as in a date in some apocalyptic
‘you’d better watch out, you’d better not cry’
kind of way,
but a place, an edge, a cliff that
doesn’t look like the world’s end until it’s
too late
when you’re hit with that falling sensation
from dreams
or the lurch in your stomach that only happened
when you were a kid,
riding in the back seat of the station wagon;
that end somewhere
is not where people don’t live or work or love
or care even,
because they don’t care at all where
the world ends,
but I do and I think it’s
somewhere just past Iowa,
if you’re wondering.

Always on second base…

lighteningAs a young boy
standing in my front yard
that doubled as our diamond
perspiring after a game with friends
on the hottest summer day of August,
we were scattered to our homes
by a threatening storm from the west
mounting up as a wall,
sending streaks of lightening;
that first awed, then frightened,
and I was left alone
when a cold wind struck me,
froze me in my place,
standing on second base,
with a chill that shivered my skin,
and still does.

When things go away…

Object permanence is my greatest enemy;
it teases with the hope that what I once had
remains, lingering somewhere behind
the back of time past, sleepless nights, empty
days, memories dancing across a screen in my
heart; hiding from troubles doesn’t make
them disappear, but the love lost fades
and the only remedy worth remembering is
I refuse to remember.

No doubt of me in you…

funeralLet it be known to all loved and kin
I’m no longer abiding this worldly din.

My many days having run their course
I am no longer as healthy as a horse.

In my last I have some things to say
which leaves my estate in this word play.

It’s not too late if you’re reading this
I’ve had my play and exceeding bliss.

Now without regrets I rest my head
without guilt or pain for now I’m dead.

And if you’re blue, I should be glad
for missing’s a pain that’s not all sad.

My laughter, too rare, is also departed,
my smile, too crooked, was never half-hearted.

But my love for you was always so true,

and there should be no doubt of me in you.

Today is nothing special…

on-this-day-in-history-eventsOn this day in history
absolutely nothing of consequence
happened, to anyone, anywhere;
no ships sailed, no princes born,
discoveries in science, medicine
just didn’t happen on this day,
yesterday and tomorrow are
filled with life-changing people,
events, battles that turned great
wars into peace, even the subtle
alterations to the fabric of everyday
life made by once anonymous people
which reverberated into time and
made history; remarkable things,
great consequences, overwhelming
tragedies and brave exploits
all happened on other days, just
not today; of course some were born
on this day, babies loved, wanted,
even prepared for, but they remain
nameless to all but their mothers,
unknown to school books and
will never fill-in-the-blank’s of
literacy exams for they just were
and are no more; and the closest thing
to notoriety they’ll enjoy is that on
this day in history they’ve been
written about, sort of.

No one has cried…

I am the tree that fell in the wood
with no one caring to hear,
the one at whom dogs bark
out of hatred instead of fear;
I am the one who spoke loud and clear
with no one knowing I uttered,
the door that is still a door
and not a jar unshuttered.
I am the book written but unread,
with a spine uncracked or bent,
the lure considered but dry,
un-tied, untackled, and unsent;
I am the road often taken and trod
derided in gospel and verse,
the angel that didn’t fit on pin head
in the sophistry that’s so perverse;
I am the billions ten times over
who have lived and loved and died,
the everyman ignored or enslaved
and for whom no one has cried.

Pages unturned…

This is a room in which all of life fits
soaring arches of stone unearthed and shaped,
draped in heavy, old wood, dark with age
from the Garden of Eden but untouched,
with all of everything bound and shelved,
rows and rows in some divine order
not worth arguing over, only to enjoy,
spaces for reading, seats at tables,
paper but only pencils for taking notes
shafts of light crisscross and dust dances
in the show of rhythmed, unhurried air,
in perfect quiet only small sounds heard,
a turning page with tender respect,
signs of satisfaction or stifled laughs,
but in the shadowy recess of the isle,
before a skewed chair left untidy
it an open tome, heavy and solemn,
resting readerless with tear-stained pages,