don’t forget old poets

old ghosts play in a orchestra

before painted ladies

across a golden bridge,

memory sepia toned

kodak instamatic

lingers too,

white house lawn

protest placards,

my poetry read aloud

younger me

more potent then,

squint at the sun

absorbing light,

nature my bus to salvation

notation and tune

may argue with me,

i know where i belong,

war and ever wishing peace

the lick of history

cannot salve wounds so many,

shade of tree a haunted place

my grave and i

knew what path was ahead,

so remember and read

wisdom is a growing child

needing nurture along

the way

 

Said as it Was

the clock as a passenger

looks with helpless hands,

as time often cast upon

the rocks of mans momentum

stalls past and present collide,

memory that flattering

cinemagraph of the synaptic’s

relays something other than was,

short breaths come

falter far from the heart,

we as living in this space

age,

flesh wither

wrinkles cluster and deepen

bones become fragile,

yet we strive to linger on

place ourselves as memory on others

so that it is not in vain

even a fragile hand held

is a memory,

cruel tides wash through time

that pull and toss you about,

so steady you remain

until that moment,

that flesh becomes shell

and memory is a function

of recollection,

not ready

it happens

now it is time to accept

and face your own reflection

again