Selective Memory

I forgot that rain
could come down
by the bucket full
upon my head
just like I forgot about
the extreme heat
of a summer day
or the piercing cold
of a winter one.
For a moment I forgot
I was growing older
and forgot the many
memories I had
before this point in time.
I forgot to remember ,
I forgot to forget.
For a moment I forgot
about the lack of perfection
in this brief lifetime
and I had a perfect
day with you.

The Choicest Hours

If you feel that you must choose

then please: do not choose me.

I don’t think that I could live

with that fact willingly.

Don’t put a bell on the grave

of these–our memories–

let time and worms be fattened

upon its treasury.

If you should think on this, well,

the notion disabuse.

Leave it behind. Go forward

with all that you did choose.

Looking at the Clouds of Rain

The clouds on the horizon look

like snow capped mountains,

something I haven’t seen

in a decade or so.

Their shape is implanted

in my brain.

These clouds are real

but they are not mountains.

The mountains seldom change.

Right? Right?

Perhaps I’ll see them again

one day

if the clouds don’t drown me first–

I know they’re still there.

Forever Young

Just another song

with another story

that I try to forget,

a song I’ve heard

a thousand times before

and a thousand times

since,

but sometimes

I hear him sing

those words again,

when they sneak through

the FM waves,

and I smile at

the fading memories

I have of you

Letterman Jacket

There’s a short window of time

when you hear a name

you used to know

and the floodgate breaks,

memories flowing through the mind.

It’s but a moment, a brief smile,

a bit of wonder about

where they are,

what they are doing,

how they are doing.

It passes.

The memory, the recollection

fades into the dark,

tangled in the mind’s cobwebs

to welcome the brief smile

back into obscurity

.

.

.

.

.

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I had an idea for a poem earlier today but then it jack-knifed when I started writing it just now. For context: The only reason I log onto Facebook anymore is to post the Sunday service on the church’s page. I put some VBS pictures online this afternoon though and looked around a bit. You can probably piece the context together from that but I will add this: that life is far too short and precious to think that high school was the mountaintop.

Thursday Thoughts

It feels like Friday afternoon

but not just

any Friday–

it’s the Friday in the fall

when I was younger,

the ever-so-slight smell

of recently cut grass

lingers in the air

as does the question of

whether it will need cutting again

before the first snowfall,

the cool air is new

but not out of place or unwelcome,

there’s no football game

for the disbanded pep band

to play at

yet I feel my fingers drumming

in beat with tunes

committed to memory,

there’s a happy feeling

I can’t explain

and wouldn’t want to,

there’s a foreboding feeling too

that I would happily

throw to the slightly

cool wind.

Sometimes I get caught up

in those old feelings

and leave the memories

to rot.

So

I’ll take a step back

before jumping ahead,

it’s only Thursday, after all.

A Great Place

The train’s horn blares

in the distance,

a solemn sound

in the cold night air,

the sound of traffic

combined in strange unity

with it,

with the rest of

the noise,

the smell of diesel

in the air, the smoke and smog,

all bring strange waves

of nostalgia

upon me,

the music I hear

and the music it makes

all play together.

Controlled chaos, you might say,

the greatest hits

of a different time

when I was the one

out there on the road,

watching the tracks,

hoping and praying

that all the roads we built

led somewhere

worth being.

You can call me

sentimental . . .

but this–

this right here–

this right here

is a great place

to be.

Material Things

That old house has four strong walls,

good bones, and memories

galore,

Endless Cycle

Six feet low is too high

for the memory

to be buried, perhaps

another six feet or two will

really seal it off,