Selections from "Remembrance A to Z

After Image

Childhood...
A simpler time
When mandates were as yet unknown,
Responsibilities unlearned.
As children we were all more prone
To bask in rays of fantasy,
Creating worlds our very own,
Using blind imagination
As a stepping stone.
Images abound aplenty
In a child's quick mind,
Flashcards stored in memory,
No victim of surprise.
Not unlike the after image
Of a smiling face
Which lingers even after
You've already closed you eyes.
Childhood... Filled with memories,
Remembrances to keep,
Tiny fragments of our past
To carry in our sleep.


Allusion

Getting to the point is sometimes
Not an easy trick.
Circling around a subject
Often spoils the hunt.
Hoping that your subject will
At some point get the gist,
And politely take you off the baited hook
Of being blunt.
There are times when vague illusion
Simply cannot do the job.
Like when someone dies
And you're left to reflect.
From day of birth we're taught
To beat around the bush of truth
And be anything in life except direct.
It doesn't make a lot of sense.
It doesn't ring quite true.
Allusion pays no recompense
When truth is overdue.


Any Day Now

Remember how when you were young
You dreamed of growing up to be
A millionaire, a billionaire
With wealth beyond reality?
Even now the flame resides
Within our vested treasure troves,
Running off vicariously
With robin leach to hidden coves
Or mountaintop retreats
Where servants fill our every whim,
Where survival is a given and
There is no "us or them".
So we struggle and we fantasize
Of a life that's rich and full,
And we drift off into sleep each night
To find our miracle.


Bring Back Yesterday

Six cents for a soda pop...
Three bucks for a shirt...
Dollar ten for flour
In a twenty five-pound bag...
Houses left unlocked at night...
Streets still safe to walk...
Candy wasn't bad for you
And it felt good to wave the flag.

Changes come inevitably.
Things move forward,
That's for sure.
But pieces of our past remain,
Reminders of
When life was pure.


Biking to Buford

Pedals churn as spoked wheels turn
And miles go passing quickly by.
Aching, straining muscles needing rest
Search for an alibi.
Downhill's easy, coast and rest,
But uphill is a royal bitch.
Watch out for oncoming traffic
Least they run you in a ditch.
Striking out on bold adventures,
Don Quixote on a quest,
Racing on occasion just to see
Whose bike could run the best.
We were young and oh, so foolish,
Never caring where we'd roam,
Knowing when we got to Buford,
We'd turn around and pedal home.


Before It Began

Tragedy has a sudden spring.
It leaps from depths unseen, unknown.
It has no roots and has a tendency to multiply.
But it does have a beginning,
A cause, a course, an aim...
And usually a what, when, where and even why.
Fortune and misfortune are kindred in their scope.
The result of merely trying to survive,
Or blind ambition struggling to make it to the top,
Wanting to be more than just alive.
If one seeks out the reason
For a fated end result,
It isn't really hard to understand.
The end is tied to circumstance
Precluded by events occurring
And recurring before it all began.


Contemplation

I learned at a very tender age
The art of contemplation.
Searching through the maze of choices,
Weighing the results,
Considering alternatives,
Looking far ahead,
Breaking down components
To the very nuts and bolts.
Every solution has a domino effect.
Every choice affects another space.
Like bumper cars colliding front and rear
And side to side
In a crazy, maddening, helter-skelter race.
Some folks can make quick decisions,
Snappy judgement calls.
When they're pressed, they never hesitate.
Me, I much prefer to give a plan consideration.
Solutions run much smoother
When you sit and contemplate.


Commemoration

Symbols and mementos
Reach deep inside our souls,
Conjuring fond memories
We thought had passed us by.
Picking our emotions up
Off of a dusty floor,
Some will lift our hearts with laughter,
Others make us cry.
Still others fill our hearts with pride
Like the raising of the flag
By marines on Surabacci,
A tattered, bloody rag.
Every little slice of life
Deserves consideration.
The symbols we hold in our hearts
Are their commemoration.