I’m sorry, Margaret
I didn’t mean to hurt you.
I just did what I thought was right
But some things are more important than virtue.
It didn’t really click
Until I saw that look in your eye
The look you thought you could hide from me
As you gathered up my books and tried not to cry.
This wasn’t some strange lustful urge,
Or some mad irrational whim,
This must’ve really been important to you
If it meant going out on such a limb.
And in trying to protect our honor
I hurt a very good friend,
By trying to be virtuous I forgot
That love is all that matters in the end.
1 December 1993 / San Antonio, TX
The dreams return,
Can’t stop them from coming,
Dreams of the past,
Relived like a robot,
Unable to deviate from programming.
Dreams of things that never happened
–that never could–
But I that know to be true:
On stage alone,
Ukulele-playing Tangled Up In Blue,
Won’t Get Fooled Again,
Sharing a backstage drink with
Early ’80s Pete Townshend,
Toasting a fallen friend,
Fidgeting for a fix.
Dreams of the future,
Not flying-car Flash Gordon future,
No Starships or monoliths.
The real future, my future:
The coming darkness,
Depression and death.
Standing on the beach
Feeling old and tired,
Ready for the end.
But I’m wrong.
Adapted from Chapter II of Summer of a Doormouse.
Now is all there is:
The past is a memory,
Future just a dream.
My response to Colleen’s Weekly #Poetry Challenge # 35 – PAST & FUTURE. It is, I believe, more a senryu than a haiku, so I hope that is acceptable (Actually, after learning of the senryu form I may have to reclassify some of my haiku anyway).
Her one dead eye
Looks off center at nothing.
Crevasses cut deep worry lines
In a once smooth forehead,
Freckled and aged,
Furrowed even further
By the pain now inflicted.
Her eye denies the tears
That his return has called forth.
Avoiding her gaze
He says nothing.
A steel statue,
Unchanged by time,
Whose silence speaks volumes.
– 6 July 1998 / 2 February 2017
Inspired by a dream almost 20 years ago. Recently brushed off and revised.
Have I dreamed this dream before,
Or is this something new?
A psycho-chemical reaction of my brain,
Or a mystical case of deja-vu?
Your face doesn’t ring a bell,
I don’t recall your name,
But I know I know you from somewhere,
Your presence feels the same.
Is our karma a chain,
Holding us down against our will,
Or is it a holy lotus cradle
Lifting us above the swill?
Break the chains, crack them,
Snap them, set yourself free.
Nothing can keep you from
Being who you’re meant to be.
Let the flower grow.
Water, feed it, let it flourish,
In return for the effort,
Your very soul it will nourish.
In the Spring, a sight to behold,
A bloom rising most beautifully,
As we all need help sometimes
To arrive at our destiny.
Image from WikiPedia
Written many years ago while reading Carl Gustav Jung’s autobiography Memories, Dreams, Reflections.
In the green meadow behind the old vicarage,
A hole thrust through the earth,
A sparkling spiral staircase descending into the pit;
A subterranean labyrinth spreading into infinity
Beneath the sleepy village above.
Beyond the green curtains stands the throne
Of the one eyed god.
“That”, says mother,
“is the man eater.”
– 25 April 1999