I’m a ghost at my own party
Blown away by the machine
I’m a ghost at my own party
Rarely heard and never seen
The clock upon the mantelpiece
Keeps tick tocking away
The hands are stuck at half past nine
Every single day

I don’t remember growing old, I simply don’t believe
I don’t remember when it was time to end my dream
When I forget my glasses, I’m young, I’m just the same
With lipstick, powder face creams, I’m still in the game
There’s a cold wind in the garden, chills the soul right through
The weeds are steadily growing, so much for me to do
I call you from the window, why don’t you respond?
The fish still in the water
It’s time to clear the pond


People come and people go, I don’t remember them
Some are kindly ladies, some are gentlemen
They are all familiar, sometimes they stay awhile
I study all the people, yet never find your smile
Some days I wake from sleep refreshed, feeling like a child
A flower in the garden, a rambler running wild
Now you are sitting on the old oak bench in your shirt of blue
Waiting oh so patiently....
Yes, I remember you


I’m a ghost at my own party
Blown away by the machine
I’m a ghost at my own party
Rarely heard and never seen
The clock upon the mantelpiece
Keeps tick tocking away
The hands are stuck at half past nine
Every single day


I

It’s a song that bursts through the walls
Of discontent, a song that enthrals
A song to move mountains of years
A song that is sweet in your ears
Never underestimate, never decry
The power of your song as time passes by
Over the years the melody lingers
Let the music run through your fingers
Kings have been moved by its power
Your song she is growing hour by hour
It’s a personal treasure, special to you
There in your heart whatever you do
Never underestimate, never decry
The power of your song, don’t let it die

This Voyage, This Resurrection

I cannot sleep, thinking:

I cannot give you short, bittersweet, sad, delighting, whimsical love poems.

I can give you short, bittersweet, sad, delighting, whimsical life poems.

In cold, rushing spring and river waters, ash and water-borne soil mix.

A voyage endless.
We too, voyage. Endlessly.

Examine the crevices and ravines that
are the map of your hands.

Your voyage's log, memory storage.

Indestructible.

In the clouds's moisture,
ever recycling, it is kept, stored.

Your hands well recall
the very first caress,
the softness of the skin,
the sweet of the lips,
thirty some long years after.

Dare to dispute?

The original animus,
the anima and the persona combination
the byproduct of blood and tissue,
some call spirit,
some call soul,
is matter that cannot be
destroyed,
nor created.

It only voyages on, the conservation of mass,
our body, our enlivement, our spark.

In cold, rushing spring and river waters,
ash and water-borne soil admix.

From this natural brew, renewal.

The voyage is the resurrection
Life ever after.
Life even before.
Life for ever lasting.

Our voyage is without destination.
Our voyage is our destination.
Our voyage is our resurrection.
Endless. Perpetual.
Eternal.

5:46 am
12/18/18