Truth

A beautiful dawn
breaks for me
as too many of my friends
live in twilight,
assured night will come,
soon enough.
The world could end
by lunchtime, but I’ll
leave this moment alone.
Let it breathe.
Allow it to flourish.
Grief will come in time,
in all its untidy dress,
complicated and deep,
feeling a lot like fear.
Before that, however,
lifelong friends may
think enough of each other
to lie once in awhile,
even as they traverse oceans and
mountains and valleys of emotion,
preparing for a final sunset,
certain there’s another way
to be in the world,
even without a remedy for death.
Uncomfortable as it is,
afraid as we are,
we can only listen to our breath,
find a calm corner inside,
engage with the world as it is right now,
and live with an open heart.
In the end, I think,
our lives are
simply stories,
the world proceeding
with its plan.

Poems and People

Poems are like people,

at least in some ways,

at least on some days,

improving sometimes,

(perhaps)

if they are treated 

to some nourishment,

a little touch up.

Not all poems are loved,

many are not noticed at all.

The same goes 

for far too many people,

and even those noticed 

are sometimes not remembered,

not as the poets

or those unseen people

would prefer.

Some poems are 

not allowed to grow old, 

(perhaps) 

tossed in a box,

or burned in a fire.

And not all people

grow old,

some get the box,

others the fire.

(perhaps both)

But here’s the truth.

All poems, all people,

merit attention.

Without it, they become

shadows of what or who

they were.

Lost.

Empty.

Starved.

Forgotten, except 

in our memories,

in the stories we tell of them,

in the words and nuances we recall.

So, add a comma,

or take one out,

but always, always

add a remembrance.

Then they’ll live forever.