Thankful for Never Writing ‘The End’

This morning, I opened my eyes
in the still-dark and, no surprise,
wondered if it was worth being grateful
since I usually awaken feeling so hateful.
That sounds defeated, and wickedly depressed,
but that’s how I felt this morning, nonetheless.

A mountain of woe I’ve built, like fortune by a miser,
yet to recognize this, not many would be the wiser.
They could be standing next to me, say,
this brooding Jungfrau of Jungian clay
with which I’ve sculpted a life of quiet desperation
that echoes in these sour nothings of dim desolation.

Which is why I switched on the light and arose from bed,
thankful that I could try to get out of my own head
and greet a day before it could rise.
I guess I needed to stare right it in its eyes,
and tell it how tired I was in living these lies
of commission, omission, and plain ugly disposition.

And so I thank my stars, lucky and ill,
that this morning I’m living this life of mine still.
I’m fortunate to have not once written The End
to a life I filled with choices, each my story did bend.
So today I thank you for the ear that you lend
ever open to my tales, my cries of joy or the wails,
your kindness punctuated not with “.” or “!”, but “Amen”-ed

A jump-out-of-bed, spur-of-the-moment thing that abruptly started rhyming. I thank whoever or whatever holds sway over presenting me with choices and abilities for you readers. We are few, but all the better to share this interesting form of intimacy that helps me defeat some of the desperation and desolation I spin around each day. Thanksgiving blessings to us all.

A Face Out of Focus

800px-Out_of_Focus_Green_Backgounds-9
Out of Focus Green Backgrounds-9, by Victorgrigas, via Wikimedia

It’s funny how often when I sit down
to chronicle my mind’s journey,
the one that took a handful of decades
to make yet can be read cover to cover
in the instant I step off on my imaginary
left foot, only a handful of images
spring to view. I can only hold that
five fingers’ worth of life within this cloudy
scene of greensward and foggier memory.

More often than not, there’s this face
I once knew hiding just off the margins,
or in that park’s oak tree shadows
of ever more feeble remembrance.
I’d describe it to you, but its edges
have become fuzzy with the years
and its colors indistinct, like that face
in the mirror when I’d shave with lights off
and dawn not yet over the window sill.

The other day, I placed my imaginary thumb
over that blur of memory, and the remaining
images lost the sharpness of their being,
smudged as if rain, or even tears, fell upon
a fresh watercolor. I pulled back,
and everything became sharp again.
Strange that when we try losing sight
of one piece of our story, so much
of the rest of it loses its focus, too.

Sorry for the run of longer poems lately. After completing a book’s worth (actually two) of 100-word poems for One Hundred Beats a Minute, I guess my muse needed to stretch her legs. I’ll tighten things up again soon, I hope. Or maybe a poem’s length is like Abraham Lincoln how described his legs when asked how long they were: “Long enough to reach the ground.”