Tread lightly on the pristine lawns
That others spend so many hours tending;
Think not of where you are going, but
Of where you are.

I like to think I have learned that lesson
After years acquiring memories to ensure
I do not forget. Perhaps it is naïve
To believe that guilt protects
Rather than self replicates.

*
How did it feel to be glad of
The arrival of words? Somehow,
Seeing it in black and white rendered it
Real, even though the spidery,
Barely legible hand was my own.

My desire, oh so very helpfully created for me,
Was for integrity where none could exist:
My dreams were of concrete and brick,
Of tarmac and stone, turning
Half remembered cityscapes into a
Two dimensional three dimensional world.
My reality was a version of the same place
In which I barely existed at all.

With poetry came the hope of honour,
Of maturity, of respect from someone
Who would never respect me,
No matter how long I sustained a futile pursuit.

*
Those days feel like they should be
Yesterday, but they are long gone,
Just like the bumbling idiot who lived them.

Now there is the watcher who longs
To be a player, but whose hesitant feet
Are anxious to leave every blade of grass
Undisturbed while making a good impression.

The expert at moving on has become
Unable to do so: days stretch into years
As he wonders which way he can go.

01/19/2016

Posted on 02/15/2016
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