I wrote a poem many years ago, for Pam. I felt very good about writing it, I am not sure why. After misplacing it for many years, I have found it again. Makes me happy. If I read it now, I may edit it, so I am pasting the whole thing without looking at it. There is time to read it after posting.
We have walked together
Through mud and rain and sleet and snow
We shared food and shelter
We cleared the path for each other
Roughly hewn staffs we hold so dear
Our trail seldom clear
There were mountains and brooks and meadows
There were boulders and swamps and quicksand.
Times were rare when we stopped to look
And when we did, we said it was wonderful
So wonderful we could die.
We have come so far.
Here we are, holding on to our reality,
Holding on to our perception of the idealized real
Brief moments of dazzling clarity
During which we call out to each other:
Come to me, lay your head on my shoulder,
Rest a while.
It seems to be one of those times
Unclasp your hands, let us let the other let go.
As we wait for the fog to melt
I will tell you about a land and it's people.
I will tell you about the hornbill that waited for the rain
And died of thirst near a flooded river
I will tell you about the mad philosopher
Who pushed a rock up a hill, watched it roll down, then did it again
I will tell you about the fathers and mothers
I will tell you about the wives and husbands and children
Waiting for messages from across the sea
Waiting for visions of plenty
Promises wilting under the desert sun.
Cruel pieties and stifled desires
Repressed souls on a vengeful riot
I will hold your hand while you walk
On the verdant quilt that rice plants make
Through the shady mango grove
Along the market where peddlers haggle
Red will be the color of the setting sun
Red will be the silk scarf I buy you
No color is brilliant like it was before
Or is it my vision that is jaded?
Fog has cleared, the path beckons
Serpentine, its coils unfold
Shall I continue this story sometime?
For this is the only story I know
And I have to tell it before I forget
Maybe tonight when we lie down to rest?
Through mud and rain and sleet and snow
We shared food and shelter
We cleared the path for each other
Roughly hewn staffs we hold so dear
Our trail seldom clear
There were mountains and brooks and meadows
There were boulders and swamps and quicksand.
Times were rare when we stopped to look
And when we did, we said it was wonderful
So wonderful we could die.
We have come so far.
Here we are, holding on to our reality,
Holding on to our perception of the idealized real
Brief moments of dazzling clarity
During which we call out to each other:
Come to me, lay your head on my shoulder,
Rest a while.
It seems to be one of those times
Unclasp your hands, let us let the other let go.
As we wait for the fog to melt
I will tell you about a land and it's people.
I will tell you about the hornbill that waited for the rain
And died of thirst near a flooded river
I will tell you about the mad philosopher
Who pushed a rock up a hill, watched it roll down, then did it again
I will tell you about the fathers and mothers
I will tell you about the wives and husbands and children
Waiting for messages from across the sea
Waiting for visions of plenty
Promises wilting under the desert sun.
Cruel pieties and stifled desires
Repressed souls on a vengeful riot
I will hold your hand while you walk
On the verdant quilt that rice plants make
Through the shady mango grove
Along the market where peddlers haggle
Red will be the color of the setting sun
Red will be the silk scarf I buy you
No color is brilliant like it was before
Or is it my vision that is jaded?
Fog has cleared, the path beckons
Serpentine, its coils unfold
Shall I continue this story sometime?
For this is the only story I know
And I have to tell it before I forget
Maybe tonight when we lie down to rest?
Comments
Tom, that's what people at work are saying. Come into the office once in a while. And check your voicemail.