Photo by alphaspirit on Adobe Stock
With Me Between the Lines
There are those who live
between the lines of life
who once were my story
but came not to fit,
not them in mine
nor me in theirs;
now separate, yet indistinguishable
from that which I became
am
will continue to be
Though no longer seen
other than as facsimile–tactile or electronic–
or dream
Still active members
of the human race, who
raced
fell
drifted
away
yet remain
whispering in my thoughts
laughing at my jokes
crying with me
At least memories
but more...
echoes in the present
longing
nostalgia
wished-for presence
as in
“I wish he could see…”
that
or
“I wish I could talk to her about…”
this
and he would
she would,
if....
but that didn’t happen,
so they remain
with me
between the lines of my life
Knowing that You Knew Joy
I don’t know if you are dead or just lost
to time’s insistent need to pass us by.
We are, or would be, the same age now, though
we have not heard the other’s laugh, or looked
into the other’s eyes, or ever said
“Goodbye, I wish you well, I wish you joy,”
or heard you say those words to me, and then
to smile...
I don’t know if you are dead or just lost
to time’s insistent need to pass us by,
but I would love to see your smile once more
and hear your laugh and know that you knew joy.
Until Tomorrows Are Swallowed by Yesterdays
Once there was no future
Only now, not yet “today,” certainly no “tomorrow”
Imperceptibly time emerged
Spawning expectation and impatience
Could have counted the totality of expectations
On tiny fingers of a single tiny hand, but
Since not able yet to count
Even on fingers
Content to suck them and
Grasp anything in the vicinity of tiny hands
Then came tomorrows to validate todays
Knowing “time out”
Long before
Knowing “time”
Yet embarking on life in time
Bedtime
Time for dinner
Time for a nap
Eventually becoming “this many”
As counted on still little fingers
Soon to become old enough to become this many “and a half”
Then time supplanted by space
A continuum
And certainly warped
Being as tall as your withered great-grandmother
The first of many goals
Growing up so fast it actually hurt
New shoes in the spring
Sore feet by the middle of the summer
Later entering the zone of immortality
Or at least living that way
With many bruises (several on the ego)
Maybe a few broken bones
Certainly broken hearts
Not yet broken dreams
(For dreams are also invulnerable at that age)
Preparing for the future
Not yet living for the future
Only the now
Future spawned, finally, by responsibility
Something (or someone(s)) to live for
Future, with the genesis of an end-game
As birthdays, anniversaries, moves
People, dreams, nightmares
Rush through and by our time
Catalyst for a myriad of futures
Grasping now with hands that
Caress, make music, compute,
Compose, construct, destruct
Wielding tools, batons, brushes,
Holding babies, books, and lots of others’ hands
Sometimes with grace
More often clumsy, distracted, thoughtless
Increasingly with arthritis
Until tomorrows are swallowed by yesterdays
And other’s futures...
Future obstructed, even hidden by
Fear of end
Or openness to “what’s next?”
No longer future
But still in the cycle of life