Futurelawyer

Poetry And Photographs - Can You Hear Them?

I am often greeted with surprise when friends discover my poetry. Most of us have the wrong idea about poetry anyway. It isn't about nursery rhymes that you learned as a child. It is about conveying feeling and emotion with words. The poems in "Life Is Simple, Really" and "Poems For Lovers" attempt to do that. As an example, this poem is called "Photograph". What feeling does it bring to you, if any?

 

PHOTOGRAPH

He looked at the photograph closely,

image of his youth,

filled with promise, and

overflowing with optimism.

In a single dimension,

the photograph reminded him

of another self,

free to hope,

free to wonder,

free to grasp, and

looking for the future.

He remembered the photographer,

prodding,

annoying,

motioning, and

jostling with the hangers on

and the wannabes.

Sharing his soul,

whether he wanted to or not.

He took a picture in his mind,

moved to another decade,

and

wondered whether the wisdom

of age

would be enough

to bring the photograph back to life.

Did it look back at him

and laugh?

#PoetryFriday - Thanksgiving Feast.

The holidays can be difficult for those who have lost someone. I was fortunate that my hiatus from the celebration was brief. However, if you are spending a lonely holiday, please take heart. Grief never disappears; but, if you seek to live joyously, it does fade into the background. You get to choose. Take your time; but, always know that you get to choose.

 

He sat at the table,

grateful for another year;

but, the empty seats and quiet house

reminded him of Thanksgiving days gone by.

The turkey tasted the same.

The TV blared the same football sounds,

and the house,

though quiet,

was populated by tables and chairs

that had seen it all.

For a moment in time,

he was transported to a day

when the house was filled

with people

who now spent the day in other locations,

spread out among the only ones

who remembered her.

He looked at old photographs

of smiling people,

mouthing words of thanks

for another year,

and another meal,

and another prayer

for lonely fellow travelers

on this earthly marble.

Her photograph

surveyed the new proceedings

and,

he hoped,

blessed his lonely heart.

He wanted to reach inside the picture frame

and drag her back

from wherever God had taken her.

He only whispered a silent prayer,

that his new tradition

would hold back the tears,

and that the ghosts of turkeys from the past

wouldn’t sit at every holiday table

until he was just a photograph.

When A Spouse Dies, The Loss Never Really Goes Away.

I have more friends,these days, on Facebook and off, who have lost spouses. When they speak of grief online, I really do feel their pain. My wife, Diane, has lost two spouses, and I have lost one. One of our closest connections comes from that shared loss. We are approaching the Anniversary of SWMBO's death, and I have found that love finds a way, always. So, as Diane and I share a new life and love, I still look back, as she does, on a love that isn't in this world anymore. I tried to express this feeling in a poem I wrote after Jacquelyn's death. I hope it gives some comfort to some of you facing the same world.

OBITUARY

I wrote your obituary today.
I told the truth
But not the whole truth.
I wrote the truth that we all tell each other
and others
and post on Facebook walls
and in Newspapers
I didn’t write the truth we keep in our hearts.

I didn’t write about the battles we fought together
and alone.
I didn’t write about the secrets we kept from others
and from ourselves.
I didn’t write about the truths we humans
don’t want others to know.

I wrote about your accomplishments
I wrote about the love others had for you
I wrote about the public face
we all show the world.

But, I didn’t write about your incandescent eyes
I didn’t write about your caring soul
I didn’t write about the wry tilt of your head
When I was being ridiculous.

I didn’t write about the words we spoke
in the night.
I didn’t write the truths we admitted to each other
in the early morning light.
I didn’t write about our sins, our faults, or our failings.
I didn’t write about the daily struggles we faced
in a world consumed by desire and evil.

I wanted to write about the heartache of a string of days without you.
I wanted to express the pain of loss
I wanted to tell the world that you were the best person I ever knew.

I only told them what they wanted to hear.

 

#PoetryFriday - Change Of Seasons.

I looked for the changing leaves.
I saw only green leaves
and palm fronds.
I waited for a cloudy day,
and a bright sun
illuminated me.
I looked for change
in the news,
and the same stories
touched my heart,
and torched it.
I wanted change
in the work,
and the same problems
kept crossing the threshold
of my office
and my life.
I looked for change in my lovers,
and each of them
left,
of their own accord,
and not.
I wanted different seasons,
and I got the same weather
every day.
Finally,
I looked into the mirror,
and realized that the change I sought
was staring back at me.

#PoetryFriday - Challenge.

"They brought something to the table",
She said
as she threw the challenge scarf
before him.
She spoke of other men,
other competitors
for the prize she offered.
They loomed over the restaurant table,
like buzzards
looking for food.

He was a Knight Errant,
on a quixotic quest
for love,
aboard his Rocinante,
wobbling toward an uncertain future.

Was his quest futile?

He wanted to sing
of impossible dreams,
and glorious quests,
and pure love.
But,
his Dulcinea knew
that his heart wasn't ready
for failure.

He raised his sword,
ready for the battle,
his unsteady hand
grasping at straws.
He wasn’t interested
in a war
for her affection.
She would have to find
someone else to fight for her.
He wanted
a lover
and a peacemaker
and a companion,
who instantly recognized
what he brought to the table.

#PoetryFriday - Cult

When the morning came,
and the cloud lifted
he remembered that he was a warrior
in a battle for her soul.
He didn’t want to fight;
but, the forces that faced him
dictated his choices.
If she were to survive,
he must breach the line,
weapon in hand,
ready to die
for his cause.
He wanted to plead for her life,
like a lawyer at the dock,
reminding the jury
of their own failures,
and the commonality of sin.
The wooden furniture
smelled of turpentine,
and the acrid air
was thick with particles of stone,
that had been stolen
from marble benches.
The arbiters refused to render opinions,
fearing a higher judgment
from a higher court,
and they meandered
between false hope
and dire consequences,
if the next battle were not fought.
He moved with the guilt of a survivor,
sometimes wallowing in the grief
of someone
left alone,
to fight by himself,
when the next morning came.
Then,
as her hand reached out for his,
she took her last breath,
and succumbed to the verdict,
resigned to the decision,
ready for the next trial,
in another court.
He knew that no one had the answers
he sought.
He knew that the battle had been lost,
and the judges and the juries and the spectators
were all members of the lost,
and dying.

When the next morning came,
he removed himself from the cult of their beliefs,
and measured his life
by a yardstick of his own choosing.

#PoetryFriday Redux. Picasso.

Your scent lingers on my pillow,

like the confident stroke of the artist.

A work of art that

I embrace

with a passion

I can't remember

in my past.

I grasp it

with a voracious appetite.

I am hungry for your touch,

Desperate

for your love,

So cautiously given.

The music of the ages

rings in my ears.

I am drawn

along the rapids of my desire.

I am cast upon the rocks

of your beauty.

I crash madly

against the winter of my confusion.

I am chilled by uncertainty.

I long for your affection.

I don't need a river guide

to tell me that the scenery is magnificent,

or that the rapids are dangerous.

I am an adventurer.

I am unafraid of drowning

in the cool depths

of your ancient waters.

Embrace me.

#PoetryFriday - Electron Cloud.

In an invisible sky,
all knowledge sits.
It waits for you
to discover its mysteries.
The flow of information
no longer passes
through ink stained typographers’ fingers,
ending its journey on a paper page
that is placed on a bookshelf,
never to be seen again.
The physical challenge
of finding the word or phrase,
upon which freedom may depend,
is too much
for the pretend scholars
in a pretend universe
waiting for a pronouncement
from the wise one on the hill.
Where are the words now?
They are lost in a sea
of bits and bytes,
and stored in a cloud.
What happens to them
when they die?

#PoetryFriday - Mirror Image.

The image in the mirror taunted him,
judged him,
focused on him.
He turned away.
Sideways, he saw a bulging stomach,
where, in the dim past,
a maiden’s gaze looked longingly.

His tired face
sagged in all the wrong places.
His once straight shoulders were bent
from years of striving,
pushing,
climbing the business tree.

He stared at the image,
and looked deep into the eyes.
They were supposed to be a window,
through which he could see a spirit
and a soul.
He only saw pain.
By definition,
the essence would be unseen.

Would his years betray him?
Would the early morning staggering,
and the gaze into the mirror,
slow his steady pace
to knowing himself?

By the time he knew,
would it be too late for his body
to answer the call?

#PoetryFriday - Driving To Work On The Last Day Of Your Life.

He sat behind the wheel
and admired the sleek red hood of the car,
gleaming under sunshine and a blue sky.
He passed by the Church
where they went to Mass,
and prepared the Altar,
and where he stopped going,
after she died.
He still crossed himself
when he passed.
He stopped at the Red Light,
waiting for the yellow light
to blink,
patient and calm,
enjoying the air conditioned air,
and grateful he lived in Florida
in October.
When the light went green,
he felt the power under the accelerator pedal,
and imagined he was in a race
with the other pretenders,
hurrying to get to a place
away from the death and destruction.
When he got to work,
he uncoiled his aging body
from the front seat,
and walked to the door
with key in hand,
ready to start another day,
filled with surprise and pain and pleasure,
certain that, if it was the last day,
he was choosing his own path,
and living his own life,
still angry at a God who gave and took
without reason or human understanding.
If God existed,
he was going to give Him an earful;
but, the odds weren’t hopeful
for a deity that allowed such human suffering.
If he made it until tomorrow,
he might take a detour to a restaurant
for eggs and bacon.