In our ramble between
two eternities,
while this body’s work is such
joy, short-term judgements don’t
seem to matter much,
not the praise, nor the blame,
not the credits, nor the sins,
self-imposed or outer-given,
all of it ours to bear,
perhaps, even, with a bit of flair.
Most of my awards have long been tossed,
every plaque, every trophy,
all the ribbons, certificates and letters.
In the end, just stuff, simple praise,
the stories and smiling lies we raise
about them more valuable, far better.
But then, there’s that plastic Club Med medal
with the red, white and blue lanyard
that was given for finding buried wine bottles
off the sandy shore of Martinique,
that one lives on, its echoes I still hear.
And the disability rating letter,
the V.A.’s judgement call – that one
will stay awhile, well past my PTSD fear.
I once got a Beautiful Bloom,
not collared on a bookshelf
or some other dusty place,
truly treasured, maintained,
kept in cyberspace.
Then there are the Purple Hearts,
once headed for a protest toss
over the White House fence, but no.
Those are about things and people,
some still kicking, others, well,
others valued fondly in my heart.
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