THE LAST HOUSE ON MEMORY LANE
The dearly departed may linger
on in the dwelling places of
their loved ones, but even the
deceased are at the mercy of time
as loved ones in turn move on,
forwarding addresses expire and
memories become dead letters.
But pity only the living, dying
to be remembered for more than
15 minutes as they wonder about
the meaning of it all….
even if only in a poem.
LEAVING SOMETHING TO BE DESIRED
If I were to cross my heart
and confess at the outset that
this poem is devoid of insight
other than what you may happen
or choose to make of it and
if I assert no attempt to excuse
such impoverishment by falling
back on the likes of less is more
what are the odds that you
will nonetheless not fail to stay
to the hopefully better end?
LET NO MAN WRONG MY EPITAPH
Here, for good, lies Chastity Wood,
Her casket wood, sin’s snares withstood.
The wood without, laid without flaw;
The Wood within, men never saw.
When we win it’s with small things,
and the triumph itself makes us small.
— Rainer Maria Rilke