History lesson

This morning, you feel your age,
not so much the dull ache
deep in your muscles,
or the stiffness in your mind

so desperate for coffee.No,
it is more the loneliness of your bed
and the mementos of love.
Love won and love lost,

pictures and small gifts
whose value is measured in memories,
one piled on the other,
random and wild,

a wall of them that surrounds you
with a maddening mix
of passion and loss, of laughter and betrayal,
truth and lies.

Nothing is simple,
least of all emotions,
least of all,
love,

and yet, when we are close,
when our bodies lean, one into the other,
whether alone, or in a crowd,
nothing else exists.

About this poem

This poem began as an exercise. A poets group I am newly part of has been talking about recording poems, and wanted to go back to recording a few of my poems, which forces me to deal even more with sound in the writing. (a good discipline).

But a poem is not all about sound. It must have heart too. And so, I wrote to the woman I love.

The picture was shot this morning – it’s the top of a cabinet in my home office. The small heirloom box was created by assemblage artist Denise McDowell, who’s creating something of a stir in her native Ireland.

Oh, and the audio? You can click below to listen.

Tom

PS – and for the record? This is my 1,000th post.