Reading E-mail - a poem

 

Reading E-mail

 

I sort through screens of e-mails.

Deleting what I can. Scanning parts of the rest.

The header. Is it addressed to me? The number of people on the e-mail. The first line.

A compliment. An advertisement. A come-on. A problem.

 

I have taken to not reading e-mails until noon. Or later.

The rest of the day will be filled with solving small problems.

Not problems I created, but issues that a president can address.

Not fix, perhaps, at least answer.

 

I ask myself, why start the day with problems?

Instead, I start with coffee, a little Danish, and the NYT games. Puzzles I can solve.

Or, I drive into the hills to photograph wildlife and nature. Brief respites from the mundane  

In between, I might write or edit. Or paint.

 

Where to start? The page and the canvas are empty and white.      

I don’t remember the last time I read a book. Or took a walk.

Arthritis and the pain keep me from what I once was.

Or is that an excuse?

 

Like not reading e-mail.

Pages torn out of a diary - a poem

 

pages torn out of a diary

 

My memory is like pages torn out of a diary.

Pages without dates. Unnumbered.

The events are there. The people.

Only the date is missing.

Like the day I asked by girlfriend to marry me.

It was a Saturday in May. We were at a wedding.

I remember it as Derby day. May 5.

In my tuxedo, I watched the race on the bed while she dressed.

The year Secretariat won the triple crown.

Or was it May 20, and I watched the Preakness?  

How can I know?

The wedding couple are divorced.

The girl and I broke it off before it was too late.

Now, we don’t talk.

No one cares, except me.

I guess it doesn’t matter.

A partial memory is better than none.

At least, I know the year, 1973.

Wait. I forgot about Google and Ancestry.

The wedding announcement in Newspapers.com says, May 12.

Now I have the date right. The page is numbered.

However, there was no race to watch.

Have pages have become faded. The writing, in parts, ineligible.

Knowing the truth, should I continue to tell the story as remembered?

Why not, diaries are like that.  

Halls of My Memory - a poem

 

Halls of My Memory

I roam the empty rooms and dusty halls of my memory

Trying to remember a name

A brief glimpse of a face

A naked body

I long to immerse myself in my past

Relive the scents and tastes

The touching and exploring

That private moment when two are one

Passion unbridled

The joy

Even laughter and the secret conversations after

Once so vivid

So alive

Now gone

Forgotten

Lost

AT PEACE - a poem

 AT PEACE

The water is still

Gray like the sky

Mist hovers over the lake

Early anglers drift along

Osprey make the only ripples

A raven calls out

An unkindness takes to the wing  

For a short time

This is my world

Enjoying the quiet

The still silence

The sweet sounds of birds

I am at peace