Remembering

I noticed that I put off writing today. I was very busy, you know. I have important things to do. I heard that story go on for hours and then I asked myself, “what the hell is going on here?” Oh, I don’t want to stop and reflect. I want to be like the robot, who is programmed to be busy all the time.

So stop I did and look out at the stream and the gray sky. The music the family is listening to travels in and I remember there are others in this world other than me. I don’t know if you have the same experience, but it’s so easy to forget what I said was important this morning.

I’m glad I remembered before the day is over, and now I write this poem. Poetry is the music that gives me perspective and a reminder that what’s real is seldom what I think.

Remembering

Sometimes it’s just a few words or a smell or a glance that brings everything to a halt.
I don’t know where they originate or their timing. They surprise.

The only thing is, I miss most of them. I’m cruising along as fast as my mind can travel
and there is so little else that I notice. I move deeper into my maze of thoughts.

I forget the moment when time last stopped. I overlooked your kindness just last night.
I only see the cold when the sun has been shining all day.

I blink and when I next look in to the mirror, I wonder what happened. Who is this
strange man looking at me? He seems so sad.

Is it too late to remember to stop and feel the breeze or taste the rain or feel your touch?
Maybe not; perhaps it just takes remembering what’s real.

Thomas

Moving On

Today’s reflection is a poem I wrote about ten years ago about moving on when a chapter of life is completed.

Moving On

The dust swirled around the
town square like the last smoke
of the big fire of ‘94.

Gathered around the outreaching
oak tree were the citizens, who
made up the town’s elite.

Where has he gone, they asked
in a gentle cadence, like the blues
he used to sing.

Haven’t seen him since the last
party he gave, was the only
verse the mayor could add.

As if god had reached his hand
into the town and extracted one
of their own, Wilson had vanished.

Some said that he just got kidnapped,
and a ransom note would be forthcoming
on the next inbound train.

Others were sure that he had found a
new love, and left in embarrassment over
the town’s lack of appeal.

Someone said they saw him in the
city having lunch with suspicious
men, who may have done him harm.

All in all, they did not know where
he was. His life just ended in this town.
No goodbyes. No message.

Perhaps he had learned about moving
On. When the fat lady dies the opera
is really over and so the curtain closes.