In my youth I sang songs of melancholy
Despair and unfulfilled love,
And called them truth.

The paper song, the troubled plea,
The aching stretch to articulate a meaning
Sensed, but not held,
Wished, but not known,
Gossamer, like fleece between a feather's strands,

Wiser now, not a little cynical,
Tied in and down --
Or considered so --
A critic of the sour, misplaced notes of youth.

But here's the clue --
In youth there was song
And love's exploratory dance
In youth there was dream
And future chance.

The simple trick is that nothing's changed:
No world event so monumental
No shattering sorrow so dreadful
Despite the screaming torrent of fabricated tripe
All timed and tuned to forestall original thought,
All fixed and ready to perpetuate the forlorn,
The hopeless, the tired view that all is lost --
And in particular that what was had is lost
To me and thee:
Each of us in turn an intended paper cut-out doll,
A replicant of what's safe and quo.

So now, a lifetime later I know
And see the grimmest trick --
The simple thought
That what might have been so lost
Might be naught but that one for which
Change does matter,
That one too close to ever notice.

An old poem, written back in 2001.


You there --
The quiet oh so quiet one, the oh so lovely one,
You, who gives and takes
Who loves and aches:
You.

You there --
You majestic, proud and haughty one.
You wonderful, wise and ever so you one.

You --
The glimmer in my eye,
The word on my tongue
The wild and witty,
The sad and melancholy --
The windows in the sun one.

She dances, she runs, she wonders at clouds,
She marvels at sand specks littered on carpet like
So many penny-round pebbles tossed to the ground.

You, she is.
And yet is not.
Curly gold locks,
The ever so you, the ever so not.
She is

You