The fabric of any life
Can still rejoice in glowing mornings,
The summer caress of soft breeze
On a field of yellow dandelions,
The farewell glare of a sunset departing
Into a flourish of stars across the night.
These gifts still grace this punished planet
Under the agony of humanity
Whose pride resides in ravaging the amazing intricacies
Woven from the many millenniums of our inheritance.
Totems of fierce love and furious hatreds
Scatter backwards in my life almost done,
Stand like blackened boles of a long burnt forest
On a blasted landscape of almost a century.
Monuments to time and place
Bedecked with torn rags of miseries
Flecks of sparkled smiles,
Tinsels shining in bright horror.
This existence to which I must lay claim
Does not stand out to compare
With multitudes of tortured, massacred, obliterated masses
Sacrificed to the strange idiocies of human acceptance.
Nevertheless, our ordinary common baggage
Filled with most beloved dead, still squirms
With twisted errors and mistaken confrontations.
Vibrating with faint screams, denied protests
And mistaken apprehensions from raw fears
Remain a persistent burden which cannot be put away,
Repackaged into innocence.
I bear parents long gone. A dead son and a wife deceased
Most missed for decades who re-appear in dreams,
Still full of currencies that vibrate with existence, with
The electricities of pleasure, hope and desire
And the vivid fragrancies of just to be alive.
I awake in early morning night submerged in despair.
The subjugation to times lost dissolves in morning coffee
And the treasures out of memories sustained
Against the morning sun.