So, I love his sentimentality,
it's a reality with which I deal daily.
Many losses and defections,
derelictions and deflections
bring some regrets. But you can bet
the pitch that Mitch proffers,
offers some food for hungry thought.
I ought to grip bootstraps and pull,
but you'll never see me flee what to me
are precious memories; sentimentalities.
Who would be my Morrie?
Which five people would fill my afterlife dance card?
What would one day more portend?
How can I pretend to have a little faith
when people never stick around long enough
to show the possibilities; memories, sentimentalities?
I can envision my life through these tender vignettes,
it gets me misty to look through this picture book,
this photo Albom of my arrival. In all,
it aids in my survival, these sentimentalities.
These are memories of my realities.
© JPW - 2013
POETS UNITED - Verse First: Writers Are Lovers
Showing posts with label Memory. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Memory. Show all posts
10 October 2013
21 September 2013
Painted Lady's Lament - Memories
Her father called her
Kat, always with tenderness. From the time she was in the cradle, Catherine was her father’s angel. He doted
over her and protected her. When Catherine was three,
he had taken her to the county fair; a good ol’ country girl who loved the
animals and the simplicity of life. She told stories
about how she loved peering into the
animal tents to watch them munching on apples
and corn. But she also remembered seeing other things, secret things the “carnie” teens did exploring
their youth and each other. But she had sent those memories into exile. When her father had died, Catherine’s
mother became unhinged. Her spirits
plummeted and a tension had built between mother and daughter. This angst clawed at Kat’s heart and left her a ravaged heap
of humanity; a pile of confusion – she lost
her father and was losing her mother. When she turned eighteen, the memories of
those young people in the animal tents haunted her. Catherine made the rash decision to find her comfort elsewhere, in
the arms of strangers. She called herself Kit, a bastardization of her father’s
love. That’s all everything had become now!
Her loss brought her
pain.
Nothing could ease
her struggle.
That was her first clue.
© JPW – 2013
20 September 2013
Mirage
and your heart believes that you
are seeing what it wants you to!
in misty faded wisps. You envision
beauty with beholding eyes, indecision
and your can swear her faces is
hidden in remarkable places.
you blame your meal, the light
and try as hard as you might,
You cannot replace her
and God forbid you deface her
her perfume, the smell of her hair
a gentle hand gracing your shoulder to repair
and you thought you could deal
with it, but you continue to feel
She is right here,
and you’re not clear
you, the task of waiting till mourning is daunting.
You reach to touch what is not there, leaving you wanting.
© JPW - 2013
10 September 2013
My Hair
My hair glows
for it is blonde.
From the day I sprouted follicles
I carried a golden hue.
It’s true. These
Aryan looks
(as seen in history books)
make my blue eyes blue.
Not bad for a West Coast Jew
who has an upper hand.
But I never brandish it in spite.
(Just to remind them when I’m right!)
My hair fades.
At fifty, I’ve become a shaded gray.
Had I heeded my father’s warning,
I would have seen this coming.
Age has a nasty way of relegating
us all to the same playing field.
Every patch of gray should yield
a wisdom beyond our years.
But it just makes my ears seem
to protrude a bit more.
Not such
an eyesore to what was in store.
My hair departs
and has become a memory.
Hair today; gone tomorrow!
Such is my sorrow since
my hair on hiatus now takes the color of skin
as in, “Why in the hell didn’t
my father tell me of THIS cruel joke?”
It’s like a craggy jab at my virility!
My pate craves for warmth, instead
I get a buff and polish. Now I shine
despite my stressed tress whine!
© JPW 2013
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)