in sorrow
they fade
those old friends
of mine
into the mist
of receding time
and I here stranded
in the present
straining to see
their faces
aching to hear
their voices
before I too
fade away
lost to those
I leave behind
memory
your words
didn’t quite catch
your words
that night
as you woke me
from my slumber
on the couch
the record still turning
on the turntable
the dog looking up
as I struggled
to my feet
my mind a haze
your words lost
like water
slipping through my fingers
like you
fading gradually
into the night
those words
still nagging
my memory
decades later
ten thousand miles
away
old pictures
there you stand
bent over slightly
your hands
on the dog’s neck
you both looking
at me
camera in hand
taking this picture
which now sits
on a bookshelf
in my den
a stick lying
at the dog’s paws
that I
most likely
use for play
with him
both of you gone
relegated to a memory
of a time
when we were young
and not yet wise
to how it would
eventually end
he to ashes
in an urn
on my desk
and you
lost to time
and old pictures
and me
with this ache
in my heart
still
never so clear
the lie
that one tells oneself
that whiskey
helps one forget
is never so clear
to me
as it is
tonight
adding to a line from Wang An-shih: the past traced in thought
the past
traced in thought
and etched
as in stone
in our minds
impossible to forget
yet painful at times
to remember
as we fumble forward
ever again
oh how brief
the ice melts
in the glass
of Black Bush
and my mind
like the ice
dissolves
into memories
of shared bottles
of old friends
of time past
and oh how brief
ice lasts
in a glass
the words
the words
so faint now
at three am
with a glass
or three
of Jameson
to add to the haze
that is memory
here there
somewhere
a voice fades
in out
and time
that old bandit
robs me
once again
of the words
from a line by Tu Shen-yen: ancient songs
they float in the air
those tunes
those lyrics
transporting me
five thousand miles
five six decades
there in ancient songs
lie thoughts
of home
mist of time
there is laughter
children’s voices
rise and fall
in the morning mist
my mind drifts
hearing other voices
in the mist
of time
so long ago
after Liu Tsung-yuan: holding back tears
gazing at a picture
taken years ago
you dancing in apron
a holiday meal
among family
many of whom
are gone like you
it’s hard
holding back tears
knowing never to see
you dancing again
or singing off-key
those Italian songs
echoing in a house
no longer mine