Mike

Tales

Tales

 

If I were handed ‘the’ book

Inscribed with the letters of my name

It would be a raggedy thing

With torn and missing pages

In parts, a mystery to me

More lament than history

Where glowing deeds are reduced

To blown ashes and curled corners

Of half remembered things

But I am learning

To fear not, or if, not, less

Because the actual day I inhabit

Contains the truth

So I make history stall

In order to build

Day by day

A fitting legacy

That even I would recognize

Gifts

Gifts

Gifts

 

I live in beauty

I must

For squalid does for me

Closes me down and draws,

the curtains

on the envelope that is outside

 

I look for an essence of the infinite

In a caught moment

Then trap it in words

And celebrate

Because it all will pass by

In a lazy caravan of sighs

 

And so I sit

A recipient of bliss

Quiet with my gift

Not at all guilty

For I would share this

With anyone.