It is amazing to me
how we seem to eclipse through time,
half in shadows and half in the sunlight
of something much bigger than our everyday life.
There is more to this,
you know?
There is more to us than meets the eye
just like a magic trick because
like the great magician says
sometimes, the hand is quicker than the eye
and so, oftentimes
life is quicker than all of us.
Yet we forget to remember tomorrow
or the fact that our plethora of time together
is limited to a precious few
All too many of us
are far too lost and all too often
too much of our time is lost
on the lust for some kind of
unrealistic or unreachable life.
The concept of “more”
is amazing to me
because we always want more.
or, is there even such a thing
as enough?
How could there be?
And this is the thing that no one told me about.
No one told me about the unreachable and unrealistic
and yet, to us
(or at least to me)
we all have wants and needs,
desires and passions.
and of course,
we all have a purpose. . .
Everyone has a purpose.
Everyone has a plan
and everyone has a match or a spot in this world
and non of this comes without a reason, and yes,
we all have to deal with the hands
of fate and destiny.
Just be you. . .
Isn’t this what people say?
Ah, but the term and the idea
is far greater than me being me
or you being you.
Everything has a place
and therefore,
I am too afraid to be
“placeless.”
or landless
or homeless
or vacant and lifeless
No.
I am not afraid
I am more.
I am petrified.
There are too many signs
and too many fingers that
point me in different directions
and, so
therefore I am sorry –
I do not believe that life is random
or how people meet is a simple thing
or left up to happenstance
Life is filled with cycles.
We come and go.
We leave and we return
and often enough
we come back to where we belong.
Home will always call you
even if when you leave
your real home and no matter how fast you runs
or no matter how you try to outrun,
your real home is always going to call you.
Anything else
is just a substitute
or a replica.
But please remember something
replicas are not the same as
the real thing.
And we should both kow this by now
Life has highs and lows
This is the same the ocean has the rise and fall of the tides
and same as the four seasons flow,
we all have “our time,”
and we all have our “way.”
Perhaps this is why
I’ve always appreciated the words
“I am the light of the world,”
or “I am the way,”
because I like the idea which tells me,
there is light out there in the darkness
and above all
“No matter what, I am here for you!”
and therefore, no,
I will never walk alone
We all have a path,
which is either determined
or undetermined,
depending upon the cards
we are been dealt.
I will start here:
The year begins for me in the cold.
I am alive and somewhat well
and living in the Northeast,
January 1, New Year’s Day
All things stem from this,
day one.
And so, where do we go from here?
Where do we place our tiny mementoes
and how do we keep our keepsakes
close to the heart
and how can we keep from being ruined?
How do we keep them safe
or special?
More to the point,
where do we deposit the unmentionables
and where can we toss the garbage or the unwanted details
that we wish to leave behind?
Yet, still
we carry too much weight.
Don’t we?
We hold too many bags that weigh us down.
We carry the weight even if we know these things
are wasteful and that weight like this
are better left elsewhere
or behind us.
Still . . .
we hold on
ad we hold on tight.
New Year’s Morning:
I am where I am supposed to be
of course,
because if I was supposed to be somewhere else
then of course,
I would be
somewhere else —
but I’m not.
I am not here
or in your life by accident
I know this
It is morning on the beach.
cold . . .
and the frost on the sands and the snow on the dunes
are like white blankets that cover the secret footsteps
of those who walked alone before me.
It is morning,
and somehow,
it is evening someplace else
which only proves
that someone else is experiencing the polar opposite
of day and night.
Life is like this.
I love the beach in wintertime.
I love the history behind my “New Year’s” walk
I have grown to appreciate the solace I find
behind a tradition that dates back to a time
when I was very young.
I was very young and small and I was equally lost then too.
But it was easier for me to be found.
(when I was young)
When I was young,
I used to make wishes on shooting stars
and have dreams of spaceships
or enjoy how easy it is to play make-believe
Remember?
Do you remember how joyous it was
to have faith in myths or to believe in fairy tales?
It was easy then.
No. Wait
It was brilliant to believe in things
like the tooth fairy.
It was beautiful to believe
or to consider that maybe
there really is a “man on the moon”
Or what about
the common version of God the Father,
and the pictures of Him
and His long, gray beard?
Did you like that too?
It was safe to have faith
back then.
It was safe to believe
and safe to say things like, yes
I will see you again.
So many people are gone now . . .
. . . or not gone so much
as if to mean that I do not know where they are.
No . . .
I know where they are
some have passed over
or moved away
or moved on to someone else.
And I am still here
holding more bags
than I should
“Take this from me, please?”
I ask this with hopes to be rid of the weight
and absent from my secrets
Day one at the shore—
New Year’s morning.
I stood by myself and faced the sea, alone
and I stood there to face my facts
from my place which is otherwise
my silent asylum.
I said my prayers
and spoke my secrets.
I spilled my heart in little whispers.
I told my dirty truths
and confessed my sins to a team of waves
that came ashore and washed the sand
and left them clean.
I like that idea.
I want to be clean too
I want to be washed or bathed
and cleansed by the waves
of something good.
I want to be rinsed, as if to be forgiven
or to be pardoned and baptized
as if to be absolved and free from sin
in the name of The Father,
Son, and Holy Spirit.
To me,
this is just like the first poem
I ever read by Jim Carroll
“I just want to be pure.”
And do you know what?
Me too, Jim.
Me too
The Written Addiction 