The Treasure Forgotten
Ever feel like you just can’t see it?
There’s something always up
and just to the right, behind you?
That moves when you turn to look?
It’s a memory, long forgotten.
An intimate secret of your mind
even you aren’t privy to
that hides behind what’s remembered now.
Could it be the meaning of life?
Or a notion visiting from elsewhere?
A glimpse into another time
where you were someone else; a past life?
I think it’s God checking over your shoulder.
Like a too early caller
in the coffee shop down the street,
peering past you to read the headlines.
He stops in from time to time,
gifting memories
to old souls still lingering.
That we would know who we were and could be again
when life feels fruitless and most chaotic.
Not Lost, But Taken Away
(This poem was written as a response to
and reflection upon The Most of It by Robert Frost.)
I miss it, all of it.
The deep rich odor of his dry dusty coat,
The one he wore to work on cold mornings
Ensnaring his warmth and essence inside.
Cut off from me oh so suddenly.
I miss it, all of it.
His worn, cracked, experienced hands baiting the line.
Teaching through doing all I need to know
To live up to my promise that he so earnestly believed in.
Gone from me now oh so swiftly.
I miss it, all of it.
The deep, hearty thunder booming from his belly
On that outing last autumn in the wilderness,
Telling tales of other hunts long past.
Silenced as if by a torrent of water.
I hate it, all of it.
The bitter taste left in my throat when the sweet is gone.
After Grandpa’s lemon drop has dissolved
So much like his life in those last few minutes
Ever present, ever visible.
I hate it, all of it.
The dark sheet now covering my ever-beating heart
Like the veil of pain that covered his face
Blocking his eyes from seeing us there as he was wheeled away.
So near, yet so distant.
I hate it, all of it.
The longing for his sensible, knowing eyes,
Not dark and glazed as they had become
In those last moments before the sirens stole him away.
So far away from me now.
