How could I have come so far
(And always on such dark trails)
I must have traveled by the light
shining from the faces of all those I have loved.
Any publishers interested in this anthology? Poetry selections from Bookgleaner@gmail.com - - Also: http://Outwardboundideas.blogspot.com - http://Onwardboundhumor.blogspot.com - http://Homewardboundphotos.blogspot.com - And http://davidthemaker.blogspot.com/
How could I have come so far
(And always on such dark trails)
I must have traveled by the light
shining from the faces of all those I have loved.
On the night table
beside my bed
I keep a small
blue ticket
One day I found it
In my pocket book
I don’t know how
It got there
I don’t know
What it’s for
On one side
there’s a number
98833
And
INDIANA TICKET COMPANY
On the other side
The only thing it says
Is KEEP THIS TICKET
I keep it carefully
Because I’m old
Which means
I’ll soon be leaving
For another country
Where possibly
Some blinding-bright
enormous angel
Will stop me
At the border
And ask
To see my ticket.
I whispered, "I am too young."
and then, “I am old enough”.
Wherefore I thew a penny
To find out if I might love.
“Go and love, go and love, young man,
If the lady be young and fair”
Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,
I am looped in the loops of her hair.
O love is the crooked thing,
There is nobody wise enough
To find out all that is in it,
For he would be thinking of love
Till the stars had run away
And the shadows eaten the moon.
Ah penny, brown penny, brown penny,
One cannot begin it too soon.
Deep in the sub-conscious we are told
Lie all our memories, lie all the notes
Of all the music we have ever heard
And all the phrases those we loved have spoken,
Sorrows and losses time has since consoled,
Family jokes, outmoded anecdotes
Each sentimental souvenir and token
Everything seen, experienced, each word
Addressed to us in infancy before,
Before we we could even know or understand
The implications of our wonderland.
There they all are, the legendary lies
The birthday treats, the sights, the sounds, the tears
Forgotten debris of forgotten years
Waiting to be recalled, waiting to rise
Before our world dissolves before our eyes
Waiting for some small, intimate reminder,
A word, a tune, a known familiar scent
And echo from the past when, innocent
We looked upon the present with delight
And doubted not the future would be kinder
A never knew the loneliness of night.