The undiscovered country

The undiscovered Country, from whose bourn
No Traveler returns, Puzzles the will …
~ Shakespeare, Hamlet Act 3 Scene 1

These borders are flimsy
You wonder how they hold
You don’t see the other side
You don’t see past the mirror
Soiled with hope and love

You wonder how the place can hold
A history’s worth of grief
All the loved and despised
All the grand and homely
The celebrated and unnoticed
But mostly the long forgotten

The teeming ranks of lives gone by
Every one sworn to remembrance always
Blessed by sacraments
Or cursed into sullen graves

You may lunge at these borders
Or flinch or simply watch
But no one crosses from there

Though some claim to have gone and returned
These ghosts live only through you
Breathe only with your lungs
In a country still undiscovered

The big Was

First, the big Was, expanding suddenly
Too quick to glow, too far to measure
Like blood coagulates, in lumps, relentless

Blind recognition yearning to recombine
Into the breadth-less infinite, one by one,
Across the fleeing everness

It was the lumps, after all, without them
Nothing is born, nothing dies
The lumps, flailing, contact and contract

Lend each other mass and meaning
Become vast in becoming spent
In the large and slow entropic resistance

Fragments of causation forgoing randomness
Blinding recapitulation, a first worm wriggles
Your father, my son, your mother, too

Born in that salty swilling dawn
Descending on down time’s narrow tunnel
Until all that’s left is dawn

The only summers I remember

The only summers I remember
Were so long ago the moss grew
And contracted, gray and brittle of
Such age and unworthiness

Grassy refuge fell and tumbled house
Disappeared from reality
Mists grew before eyes unable
Or unworthy to let go

The only summers worth summoning
Seem to pull yet further as fall
Without shame intervenes
And treeless leaves gather

And blow begone with no regard
For foot-dragging eye-squinting
Mumble-dim revision
Or re-visioning

The only summers’ slowly fading
Leaving traces only
Flickering transitory ghosts
But the worst of it is the sheer

Lack of spectacle the way lovers long gone
Become mere characters in your story

Fall came blowing in

Well, after all, Mel Torme did write the Christmas Song in July …

Fall came blowing in
Swept summer into yesterday
And all our dreams of reckoning with it.

Among these dead leaves
Wind-strewn and weary
Our footsteps fail to echo

The substance of our lives
Growing soft
Beneath the husk of a moon

Growing old
Too soon