What may begin
as lose or win
soon starts to spin
outside that frame.
It seems like play,
this bob and sway:
a bright display,
almost a game,
a wild careen,
two wide extremes,
darkness and flame.
Always the chance
in the day’s dance
could leave you lame.
Each place you are,
gutter or star,
leaves its own scar.
No point in blame.
Thus every art
contains, in part,
true and false starts.
Each ends the same.
27 APR 2017
Some kinds of closure only come
in story books and movies;
real life rarely turns out quite
so neat and clean:
with one door neatly sliding open
as another firmly shuts;
such coincidence is rare
and far between.
To compress the waiting lifetime
in a moment on the screen,
or a couple hurried pages
or at least, over optimistic
that the lessons to be learnt
are so obvious
as to be what they seem.
That a random chance encounter
on the escalator down
could result in an epiphany,
just more pablum for the masses
who believe in self-help classes
and still fail to understand
that life’s a bitch.
Or that centuries of training
can be quickly overcome,
unspoken prejudice and hatred
just as likely as a fear
of heights or sense of isolation
can be vanquished
by a kiss, or airplane ride.
Some kinds of closure never come
at all, except in bits
and pieces you pick up
each new day:
once you learn your profound losses
are the only thing you own,
and you wouldn’t have it
any other way.
19 SEP 2006
Call it bad timing, a season of doubt
Days turn to months while you figure it out
Some expectations are better as dreams
Reality’s never as clear as it seems
Call it poor judgement from weak evidence
You’ll find a witness for any defense
Motives and motions get twisted and skewed
So much depends on your own attitude
Call it misfortune, with payment in kind
We each spent most of what coin we could find
Payment and purchase both steps in the dance
That zero balance is not there by chance
Call it unlucky, but what’s in a name
Mere circumstances aren’t solely to blame
Actions, reactions, and the science thereof
Fall by the wayside in questions of love
Call it a wrong move that both of us made
Now the dealing is over, the cards have been played
Rules can be broken, despots overthrown
But sometimes it’s better to leave them, alone
Call it a breakdown, a cross in the wire
Each of us honest, and each one a liar
Friendship and folly are split by a hair
I’m here on this side, and you’re over there
Call it unlucky, but that’s just a word
Raking these ashes seems a bit absurd
It’s all semantic, when push comes to shove
There are no quick answers in questions of love.
10 SEP 2003