What I Mean to Say

One afternoon in therapy

Eternally emerging,

from what I was 

into what, I don’t know.

There were times I thought I knew.

Then there were times I thought I knew nothing,

but actually did know something.

Some days it was ‘Yes.’

Other days ‘No.’

And other days, ‘Maybe.’

Contradiction.

Paradox.

Unsettled.

Nothing gone from ourselves

is gone forever.

Knowing too much?  Oh sure.

What do I lack?  Nothing but that ‘one thing’

(I thought I would find it in The Moody Blues).

Or do I have too much of one thing,

not enough of another?

I have a reservoir of love, sure,

everyone says so.

(Who cares what everyone says, right?)

Or are they full of crap?

Tomorrow I’ll see a world differently,

or a different world,

small as they both are.

As always, there is tomorrow.

from: After All the Years of Gravity

Unpub. MS p. 3

About Therapy

Memory means something, always,

but it isn’t precise, ever.

So many times I have scattered some of my memories over

a mental landscape for scrutiny and eventual reassembly,

thinking I might find something long overlooked, 

something that would fill in the memory gaps,

reveal a long forgotten name, a missing event, 

reasons for my occasional unravelings, 

or I’d find a new poetic voice.

It is so difficult to know if I should reassemble 

everything in more colorful and musical ways,

thinking that would relieve some anxieties

or make life look better or the memories more interesting.

I ask the therapist to help, who then often asks me, 

How long have you been carrying this around?

You still haven’t fixed this?

I’m looking for understanding and closure…

Despite her earnest efforts, 

inexplicably, I’d still procrastinate,

still lose some things,

never to be found, most likely,

not really missing them, 

coping as I have for many years.

But sometimes, just once in a while, when standing 

in my back acre, my heart emptied of words,

sipping a little wine, 

I feel the consoling voice 

of that one lost love, unforgettable, 

and still I wonder what could have been.

From: Getting There

Unpublished MS p. 35