No End To Time

We were boys back then, when days were longer.

We were stronger, too, in body and in mind. In time

perhaps we would weaken and soften, but in the now of then,

no end was in our mind, not yours, not mine,

there was no end to time.

We were hard and proud, eager, loud,

happy, stupid, drunk on beer and being young,

though we did not know then

just what that meant.

It meant being more alive

than ever we would be again.

Moving on from booze and song,

we fell apart and into what was yet to come.

The moment we began to think of others

our youth began to leave us.

Our selfish armour pierced by the lance of love

and the prick of its thorny crown, we found

there was more than just our self to centre on.

From the moment after being young,

little leavings of ourselves fell all around us,

dribbles and trickles of what had been

invincible lay in mortal ruins at our feet.

We die in increments.

What you had been was gone too soon,

crashed out in a welter of steel

and a sixteen-wheeler that you never passed

on a road coming back from your future.

Your mortality ruined me, my friend.

I had not yet learned to live.

Block Paving

Block paving

It startles me

The realisation shakes my head

I’ve been staring at it for daze

Thinking about life

The unversed, and everything

But mostly life

This isn’t how it should be lived

Staring at brindle bricks

Wishing you were someone else

In some other place

Wishing this was not

Your only life

The Thirteenth Of May

They come and go, days,

each like every other, another one to come

after this one is done.

We mark them or forget them or ignore them

as we choose,

the significance of a date often lost in the daze of our lives.

Joe Louis, Dennis Rodman, the Wonder of Stevie,

and lesser mortals, entered the world on this,

the Thirteenth of May,

while Doris, on this Day, left it.

And this day will soon be that day, passed, the past,

like those who come and go or came and went, alas.

What will tomorrow bring? More of the same thing.

So celebrate this day, the Thirteenth of May,

because, unlike all the other days

this day is today,

today.

We Don’t Understand Us

You don’t get it.

I can’t get it right.

We don’t understand us.

Nothing of us is understandable. We are complex,

complicated, completely normal

in our abnormal ways. This is how it goes,

how life unfolds for us, for all of us, for always,

forever, ’til death us do part, our carved hearts

entwined in the bloody accident of our meeting,

of our simple act of simply being,

of the living of our ordinary lives.

Husbands and wives.

Neither knows the other, and never will, anyway.

I know you little enough to be able to say

I do not know you, too.

You will always be a mystery to me,

as I will be to you.

And this is true,

love.

A Cactus

Love is like a cactus plant

A thing of beauty

That will hurt you

If you get too close.