Half Way Around the World
I have traveled so far,
so distant, I was gone:
alone in no where
even with a phone
and email.
Alone in my mind.
Distance makes news from friends
a shadow satisfying nothing;
their wrinkles, eyes
unable to be recalled.
Half way around the world
is as far as we can go I thought.
So wrong again.
Not quite so distant as my friend Bill.
His death left only regrets.
Once it seemed miles cause fabric to tear.
But death leaves one in rags of solitude.
Prophecy
Having turned 65,
I returned home
from New Zealand’s snowy peaks,
to DC’s heated streets.
I would go to the wedding,
of my eldest son Evan,
held in a city.
That night a dream so clear
made me fear it as true.
The dream of the party,
now held in the country,
was for young Rob
who shows his lady
to friends and family.
We danced and sang, ate and drank.
My friends from college days came to stay.
Herb and Fred. All to celebrate.
Bill never came. I wondered why
he used his heart attack to die.
A doctor, so he knew
symptoms, but told his wife, a lie. Then I feared would I
know my friends?
Could I mix them up
when they came by?
Herb spoke; he brought a book
“Tools for Happy Wanderings”
all about taking care of the old.
Funny, that he would be so bold
as to talk about our ends.
We know of happy wanderings, though
we don’t take care of anyone anymore.
Francie died - years ago – above 94.
Yet, I wondered, “Did I lock the car?”
I left to see: I had.
So I turned on the radio
and sat a while. What for?
I don’t know. It was winter then.
Snow lightly falling.
Friends came to bring me home.
I wasn’t sad until I awoke,
home again from New Zealand.
I have traveled so far,
so distant, I was gone:
alone in no where
even with a phone
and email.
Alone in my mind.
Distance makes news from friends
a shadow satisfying nothing;
their wrinkles, eyes
unable to be recalled.
Half way around the world
is as far as we can go I thought.
So wrong again.
Not quite so distant as my friend Bill.
His death left only regrets.
Once it seemed miles cause fabric to tear.
But death leaves one in rags of solitude.
Songs
I asked my mother
to sing her song
by a campfire
when I was young.
“No,” she cried.
“Not now, my son,
Not tonight, by the fire
in the moonlight.”
Before sleeping,
I watched the tops of trees
touch stars so high –
wondering why
she stayed silent that night.
Years later, when
she was frail and old.
Not at a fire but in bed,
ill and cold,
I asked, “Why did you
never sing your own song?”
She looked away,
at first said nothing.
Then quietly “there is no wrong
to not have one’s own song.”
For the life of me
I can not see
reason in those words
given before she died.
Not then nor now,
though I’ve often tried.
I asked my mother
to sing her song
by a campfire
when I was young.
“No,” she cried.
“Not now, my son,
Not tonight, by the fire
in the moonlight.”
Before sleeping,
I watched the tops of trees
touch stars so high –
wondering why
she stayed silent that night.
Years later, when
she was frail and old.
Not at a fire but in bed,
ill and cold,
I asked, “Why did you
never sing your own song?”
She looked away,
at first said nothing.
Then quietly “there is no wrong
to not have one’s own song.”
For the life of me
I can not see
reason in those words
given before she died.
Not then nor now,
though I’ve often tried.
Prophecy
Having turned 65,
I returned home
from New Zealand’s snowy peaks,
to DC’s heated streets.
I would go to the wedding,
of my eldest son Evan,
held in a city.
That night a dream so clear
made me fear it as true.
The dream of the party,
now held in the country,
was for young Rob
who shows his lady
to friends and family.
We danced and sang, ate and drank.
My friends from college days came to stay.
Herb and Fred. All to celebrate.
Bill never came. I wondered why
he used his heart attack to die.
A doctor, so he knew
symptoms, but told his wife, a lie. Then I feared would I
know my friends?
Could I mix them up
when they came by?
Herb spoke; he brought a book
“Tools for Happy Wanderings”
all about taking care of the old.
Funny, that he would be so bold
as to talk about our ends.
We know of happy wanderings, though
we don’t take care of anyone anymore.
Francie died - years ago – above 94.
Yet, I wondered, “Did I lock the car?”
I left to see: I had.
So I turned on the radio
and sat a while. What for?
I don’t know. It was winter then.
Snow lightly falling.
Friends came to bring me home.
I wasn’t sad until I awoke,
home again from New Zealand.
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