my eyes
grow heavy
remembering
the words
the faces
long gone
from view
memory
Malibu, 1978: for Maureen
the cable car
up
the Pacific
below
white wine
clean chicken bones
espresso
bourbon
a breeze
to cool
one’s heart
so very long
ago
echoes in the night
my words
come back
to me
in the night
echoes
reminding me
of all
I’ve said
and all
I’ve wanted
to say
like some horror movie
it is always
the same
like a specter
in some horror movie
there you appear
stalking me down
once again
this night
here
on my balcony
I stare
into darkness
and think
of you
this night
will surely end
but the feeling
in my heart
goes on
reconnected: for David Trent
has it been
so very long
that we sat together
at the Blue Note
listening to jazz
those days
I would sign you out
for a trip
off-campus
a Shakespearean play
with The Scribblers
you writing poetry
in my living room
eating donuts
drinking coffee
reading every book
I recommended
in my classes
for 3 years
surprising everyone
at that school
who had so little faith
in you
who was always
one step away
from expulsion
but we knew
didn’t we, David
that you would blossom
and there you are
with family
a career in advertising
writing for a living
mentoring others
now
like I mentored you
my heart swells
to hear this
see you’ve grown
into the man
I always knew
you would be
and so honored
to have you
in my life
again
once more, again
on the screen
in a dark theatre
my eyes betray me
once more
again
as a scene
too familiar
plays out
there
triggering
once more
again
a life long gone
but still
beating
in my heart
on the lack of saints: in memory of some people I used to know
there were no saints
on those streets
you walked on
then
and now
wherever now is
just torn boys
turning into men
with conflicts raging
within
trying to live up
to some ideal
put upon you
carrying the scars
one gets
on body
on soul
and I
no longer your witness
carry you still
in my ravaged heart
Remembering by Yuan Mei
The years, their months
turn, grave and slow, their
fall and spring, again.
Mountain flowers, mountain leaves and
each time’s new.
Sometimes I sit alone
and smile upon the child I was,
in memory now distant
and a friend.
translated by J.P. Seaton
old phone numbers
there they are
in address books
on cell phones
scraps of paper
stuck between the pages
of books
read long ago
names sometimes
attached
though often
on those scraps of paper
missing
or incomplete
and one is left
trying to remember
faces
personalities
quirks in speech
hesitating
as one often does
deleting
putting off
till another day
erasing one more link
to a life