He reads
My poem
And says,
“I don’t get it,”
But I do.
All the things
He thought he was
Turned out to be
Errors planted there by
Other people,
Sometimes well-meaning,
But who had no idea
What it means to
Be courageous,
Follow one’s own path in life,
Free from the herd.
They come together
Not because of chance
But certainly due to habit,
A familiarity born from
Repetition, recurrence,
Distrust for deviation,
Simple, predictable
Results emanating from
Hurt and fear.
It didn’t work out,
Maybe because it
Wasn’t meant to be but,
More likely, due to
His penchant for
Trying to force
Something to happen
When it really
Should be left alone
On its own path.
Too many papers
Festooning my cluttered desk,
Hanging off the edge.
I remember her happy,
Writing glowing, vivid prose.
It arrives innocuously,
At first seeming
Like no big deal.
It soon becomes much more
Trouble than it merits,
Unrequested complexity.
It collapses spectacularly,
A victim of its own
Unwieldiness.
Her past actions
Weighed heavily on her now
As they returned to
Torment her in ways she
Had hoped they would not but
Knew were inevitable,
An outstanding debt
For unmindful decisions
Come due and payable in
Inescapable anguish.
It happens again,
And I’m not quite sure
What to do about it.
One thing I know is
That there’s absolutely
Nothing I can do about it.
I’ll sit here and wait,
Hoping that it doesn’t
Recur, though it will.
Dreams overlooked,
A mocking laugh bids
Possibility goodbye while
In another corner of the
Planet someone understands
That we all do much better
When we take care of
Each other and the fragile
Place we all inhabit.
