An Imprecise History
The thing is, you can’t believe any of it,
all these doodlings
and verbal dances I write upon the page.
At times they are ancient history,
mangled of course by time and madness,
by a need to see what is occasionally in front of my face,
and more often wraith-like, fading in and out.
At times they are current events,
but never quite certain as they seem,
always in flux, a circus mirror designed
to distort, make you laugh, or draw tears at my own
flaws and flippancies.
You may, at times, recognize
the pain and love and wonder and struggle,
raw and real,
but often not of this time or moment,
memories now, futures now, time
without meaning, as it all flows together.
More often, it is a mystery, strange wonderings
that have lingered unanswered too long
and simmered in some unsightly stew for a bit too long,
rendering the vegetables a bit unrecognizable.
The thing is,
feelings have no time table.
They rise from the dead.
They arrive unexpectedly from the future, anticipatory
and shape shifting from then to now to something
hovering on the edge of now,
more than mere spectators,
less than full participants,
bright colors on a white canvas,
A poor way to measure a life, particularly one
that has few proclamations,
too many mysteries,
a need to get it out
and a wonderment that my particular madness
seems to save others
About this poem
I am always amazed what people get from my poems. At times, I hardly recognize myself.
The muse is a fickle thing.