Lost. A poem, 9/1/05

I can’t help it, and it often makes life harder than it needs to be.
I do not know why, but it comes so naturally to me to ascribe a persona to most everything I find and a history is constructed as soon as it catches my notice. The elegant car, now in disrepair. Who was it, all those years ago, so proud of your pristine shine? The pen, forlorn and trod on, resting on the sidewalk, gravel having left its mark on your smooth surface. What pocket did you tumble from, unnoticed? The single shoe on the side of the on-ramp, still shining with buffed leather and looking for your mate. How the hell do they loose a shoe on the highway?
It makes me think of the lost things in my life. Is my missing coffee mug being cared for? Is the stolen backpack at least being used? Why do I care? These are just things and things are replaceable. Yet, I look and see some forgotten thing and it looks back as if to say, “Well, you won’t just leave me here, will you?
I don’t have room for the car or reason for the shoe. The pen writes smoothly though, and dents and all, seems happy with its purpose and nestles in to talk with new friends in the dark, safety of my desk drawer. At least as I imagine it.

Medium Pleasures

Poetry, this morning…

Medium Pleasures -6/10/05

They say it is the small pleasures in life that make us happy.

We can all recall the great joys in our lives, and each day, hopefully, is punctuated by the small things we enjoy, but rarely dwell upon. Between the two, however, lies a forgotten collection of the Medium Things.

They are not life shaping such as the birth of a child or the long awaited forgiveness of past and regrettable transgression. Nor are they the small change of the ice cream sandwich bought on a hot summer day or the crunch of fresh snow underfoot on a Sunday morning walk in the cold.

As I strain to think of the Medium Pleasures, it amazes me how difficult they are to account for, though I know they have been there.

The rain that stayed away for the entirety of the hard won vacation.
The friend who found success and shares it freely.
The recognition of a correct decision when most thought you wrong.
The enjoyment of a wise investment, be it money, property, family or friends.

They don’t come so often, these Medium Pleasures.

But they rarely keep me up at night with worry ‘til they unfold like flowers and show us their favor.

3/7/05 – The Old Trott Cemetery

Monday Poem – A Year and a Day

The Old Trott Cemetery – 3/7/05

The stones of the old plot are deep in winter’s snow.
Who lies beneath is a mystery though.
They have lived their lives.
They have seen good days
and watched the tides and the sunlight fade.

Their homes, built with no aid of power.
Their hands grew callous and their gardens did flower
with the same small blooms that will open this May.
But their names are lost.

Time scrubbed them away.

2/27/05 – To Unlock

Monday poem, A Year and a Day

2/27/05 – To Unlock

How evocative a key can be.

We see them everywhere and they jingle in a familiar way which we know without ever having to guess.

It is something unique in all our lives.

But what are they and what have they been? Some flat, short, two sided or dimpled.

I look at the loop of keys on my desk and I can see the places they each unlock.

The standard, ubiquitous key to the front door at work. The diminutive brass keys to fit padlocks on sheds back home. A large, old fashioned skeleton key which turns the bolt on my front door. Even the keyless key that locks the car when I fish for the chapstick in my coat pocket.

“Ka-Click” Damn it!

It feels wrong to throw away a key. It is the thing that opens a special place. The thing that grants you privileges closed to others.

It seems that a key is the small piece of somewhere you can take with you.

It does so much more than turn a lock.

It is a reminder of privacy.

A Year and A Day

For one year, I kept a book of poetry. I didn’t write everyday, but I did write steadily. Almost immediately upon finishing it, I managed to loose the book. For the last two years, I though it lost forever, moldering at the bottom of the local landfill.

I was wrong.

I found it.

Every Monday, I will endeavor to post one of my little poems here. They are mostly free verse, though not all and like anything in life, vary in quality. For the poor ones, I offer my apologies. For the better ones… well, they are their own reward.

I call this collection “A Year and A Day,” since that is how long it took to write it.

I hope that if you don’t actually enjoy it, then hopefully it won’t make you physically cringe.

-Turkish Prawn

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