Outside the Collosseum

The tourists are here to see the ruins.
The glorious survivors
of stone and history,
the monument of post cards,
an oval battleground of gladiators and victims.

It resonates with us, this place.
We have all lived here through movies
and our own battles, often waged in private
as we become heroes or casualties of our own lives,
seeing ourselves here, not part of the crowd

but as the ones still standing. chests still heaving,
sword hanging from your hand,
waiting for one more lion.
Sure there is another beast in the shadows,
and this moment is only a respite.

You are wrong of course.
Some wars are won
Some scars fade and become merely tough markers
of what you have survived, Trophies
neither hidden nor displayed. Simply there.

The tourists stand on the railing,
expectant. Waiting for the song or poem or history.
Waiting for the specticle. They too believe
there is another beast to slay. It is hard
to imagine this place without them.

But you stand in the center.
It is a different time. Not a time for battles
but simple life. Simple survival with a splash of color,
the grey stones of history are dirty and worn
and your eyes do not see them any longer, choosing

instead to look beyond them,
through the arches to the houses outside,
splashes of color and life without weapons,
where meals are served and beds are filled
and the battles are truly history.
and you are not.

About this poem.

Dedicated to the woman I love, who has so much to do with where I am in life right now.

I am not sure when it happened. For decades I have written of the battle. The struggle caused by trauma and divorce and my own weakness. Poetry, as I have said, was my therapy. In fact, it was my therapist who urged me to begin writing again for just that reason. Look up tags like “restoration” and “depresson” and you will get more poems than you can read.

Those poems helped me heal. And from the notes some of you have sent me over the years, they have helped some of you as well, giving my suffering and struggle meaning.

But somewhere it happened. My struggles lessened. I am still scarred by the things I wrote about, but they are no longer as important to me. I have survived. I have learned how to dine civilly with my demons. The pain is not there day to day. Some days the pain is not there at all.

It is a good thing. It has also left me a bit floundering. What do I write about when every day is no longer a battle? Joy is less interesting and less helpful than struggle. Writing is harder. But living is easier.

So now, in these past couple of years in particular, I have wrestled to develop a vocabulary of joy. A vernacular of thanksgiving. Part of me lives like the gladiator at the end of the show, sure there is another lion to slay. But part of me is beginning to trust the good around me. To see love and color and joy without fear.

The photograph was taken at the Colloseum in Rome. From the center, looking out.

Be well. Travel wisely. Find your peace and when it arrives, embrace it. It may feel strange, but it is a beautiful thing.