SLIPPING AWAY

Each day I am certain something
more slips away, forgotten, no
longer able to be recalled, lost
in the vast abyss of yesterdays.
I would like to think this happens
because something new, something
better has taken its place, and I
had no choice but to displace it.
That is the convenient story I tell
myself, although I am rarely convinced,
and know that there is a good chance
it is no more than a lie of sorts,
but one that will slip away
and be replaced by something better,
or perhaps I will just forget
that it was a lie in the first place.

ODE TO THE CAT

I read a poem today
about a cat
and the memory
of my last cat came to mind,
and with it,
the certainty
that cats
have an innate sense
of people which people
utterly lack.
It may be that cats
are completely ignorant
of the masks we wear,
or simply that
they could care less
how we see ourselves
and only measure us
by what we offer them.
In that sense, of course
they are people as well.

LEGACY

We often believe that the best way
to honor the dead is to praise them.
When my time is gone, do not praise me
for your praise will fall on deadened ears.
If you believe in the power of the word
speak aloud in my name,
if you dare, commit the deed
as you believe I might have done,
if you can, lift up someone else
even though my arms may have been
too weak for the task in my own day.
As I am leaving you a world,
you will soon enough leave one as well,
and if that world is better than mine
for the sake of your efforts
that is all the honor I could hope to imagine.

SHE SAID

She said that we are little more than clay
to be molded by God and carved by fate
and we count on nothing more than this day.

It’s but a week since she has slipped away,
we expect our sense of loss to abate.
She said that we were little more than clay,

just so much time, no matter how we pray
and when it’s done, there can be no debate
and we count on nothing more than this day.

We clung to her, begged God to let her stay,
she laughed with us, then entered through the gate.
She said that we are little more than clay,

that she didn’t fear heaven’s great array,
it was her time, neither early nor late,
and we count on nothing more than this day.

We still can hear her laugh, can hear her say
Sing! Dance for me! Life comes with no rebate.
She said that we are little more than clay
and we count on nothing more than this day.

NOW LISTEN UP

I read a poem
today, about a cat
and it reminded me,
actually the memory
of my last cat came to mind,
that cats
have an innate sense
of people, that people
utterly lack.
It may be that cats
are completely unfooled
by the masks we wear,
or simply that
they could care less
how we see ourselves,
and only measure us
by what we offer them.
In that sense, of course,
they are people, too.

TRUE MEASURE

If you ask me
the true measure
of a passing moment,
I will tell you
it is at once invaluable,
and by equal measure
useless, lost in the detritus
of time’s wave, now receded.
Do not try and cling to it
for your memory is
all that is impermeable,
and then only
in a moment already
carried off by yet
another ebbing
wave of time.