Imagination

I have been mad at myself for random

Things.

I guess that happens when left to your own

Devices.

I have forgiven myself 

for all the things I can't 

remember.

I guess 

this can happen

too

often

I have held onto petty grudges and

I have let go of heavy resentments.

Occasionally, I have strong opinions

but always pick my battles

All of which

I have won.

You've come a long way

some have said.

Starting over 

means you've come 

empty-handed and grateful

for what was not taken.

And what is more

all that you are free

to take-for a time-

Interesting and cursed. 

I don't know

what I do not have,

nor can I imagine

what is better

or worse-

Living 

for giving or 

for getting...All

random things

Not worth

getting mad at myself for

or remembering.

ever again. 

Painting by Thomas Dewing, 'Lady with a Rose''c. 1915-1924 via Wikimedia Commons in ublic Domain. 

3rd Act

People teach you

about people.

Loneliness and Solitude

See-Saw.

Generations 

leave more than can be

taken.

Practice

gratitude & letting go

of things and people 

you were grateful for 

Once. 

Everything happens...

Burning bridges,

opening doors-

There must be more

than one way

In or out.

One way to look at it

is just that.

People need people

like signposts

for orientation.

Yet never to be 

in the same place

at the same time.

Missing and

Lost 

can be both 

alone and together.

When you find yourself...

Painting by George Hitchcock, 'Calypso' c. 1906 Google Art Project via Wikimedia Commons in Public Domain. 

Making time

 

Maybe it's how,

I gotta go in 10 minutes,

feels so different from-

I have 10 more minutes of sleep-

Or all lights are green

and other days every single one

makes you wait

reminding

Patience is virtuous

Following the divorce,

of course,

treading harder than ever

just to stay afloat-

On that same note

trying harder to keep 

inspired

instead of always feeling 

tired.

Grinding the mill stone

down to the metal

ore-

just

Stop and sink-

Or was it drop and think...

Into a poem

pocketing loose pieces 

while waiting

for the light to change.

Painting by Esperando La Pesca 'Waiting for the Catch' via Wikimedia Commons in Public Domain. 

Palette or Palate

Grace is always within you

it is said...Hmmm...

I think grace is pink

which is why its hard to find

when all you see is red.

Love is not all crimson cupcakes

still, there is gratitude, 

warm and orange. 

Citrus can be sweet or sour,

it depends on more than taste.

Every word

a jagged cube of ice

to crush or to melt,

linger into nothing...

Yet nourishing

by experience,

like white or wisdom-

or the sun.

What do I know

of divinity-

But hell

and evil, is black 

Absence or All...

Diluting color

of meaning, when

Time is demanded.

Faith is ordered.

I taste metal,

or my own

blood

while

sensing my fragile

green mortality

All over.

Painting by Vincenzo Irolli (1860-1949), in Public domain, 'Young boy eating a watermelon' via Wikimedia Commons.

Obviously hidden

The treasure chest is locked

of course

I cannot find the key.

Losing it

intentionally

was self-defense.

And of course

someone asked about its

contents.

Privacy excluded,

they meant no offense

to my memory.

But of course

certain things cannot be trusted

with others

Or oneself, really.

That is why

it is safer to hide

Inside.

Painting by Edward Mason Eggleston (1882-1941), 'Princess of the Treasure Isle' in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Divisible

Blessed are thee

memories

chosen to be forgotten

dissolved into distant haze.

Cherished are those

brilliant first rays

alighting the new path

of unknowns.

In the sky

and in the sea,

the clouds and waves

do not recall those passed.

Likewise, made of the same,

and never the same

You and I

remember-

Painting by Henry Scott Tuke, 'Looking out to sea' c. 1885 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Blinking

Every new day-

recovered mind,

rested eyes,

pocket moments

pulled out-

placed under the tongue.

Bitter-sweet

and so savory-

a memory can be...

Distant clouds 

of dreams, residues

shade daylight hues.

But atmosphere

absorbed after

sublimation and slumber

is re-minding 

Oneself

of one's self.

At least as far

as reflections like these

appear to Be. 

Painting by James McNeill Whistler - 'Resting in Bed', c.1883-1884, via Wikimedia Commons in Public Domain.