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

following Li Po’s lead: to those left behind: on this Easter Sunday in Istanbul, 2019

you are all there
in dreams
our youth on display
strength resting still
in these arms
weaker with age
there is music
Mom dancing in apron
as she sings off-key
to Al Martino
my brothers my sister
nieces and nephews
that long extended table
Charlie Aunt Mary
Grandma’s raviolis
filling the plates
seconds thirds
the turkey the broccoli
sausage and peppers
coffee and cake
platters of fruit
peanut shells and walnuts
George playing The Four Seasons
Johnny teasing Robert
Robert sighs dramatically
into his glass of wine
and I laugh
oh I laugh
waking with tears
in my eyes
Easter Sunday
in Istanbul
so very far
so very long
away