From out Pandora’s box there flew
the questions, answers, thoughts, feelings,
and I gathered them like woman do
within the confines of review.

Laid start to end they made no sense
so I shuffled them like cards, you know,
and fanned them round as if to deal
the truth into mind’s memory.

But soon the truth became o’er laid
with my opponents cards from hell
and who can find the absolute
when past perceptions resolute?

So I tried to stack them neatly so
back into where they should remain
but once let out an unmatched pile
exceeds the boundaries of mind.

Today they walk in single file
in the ether of what’s still to be
bearing all and getting more
until ne’er again a “once before”.

But what of mind that can’t discard
the deal of life’s most hellish cards?

From beneath the surface of burial grounds
can be heard the sounds of restlessness
and it’s like the sand moves underfoot
and topples the stance of permanence.

I buried the past deep down underground
and thought it would lie forever as dead
so I kept a fair distance from the rumble
like one in protection of sanity.

Now far from that initial event
and totally firm in stubborn denial
I listen unnerved and wait perturbed
for an eruption that’s bound to occur.

It’s a question of time; how long can one vow
to remain untouched by past happenings
before the eyes rising and deafening ears
with the cries of needful acknowledgement?

But soon, too soon, the “now” creeps up
and the past sinks back into the sand
not dead but silent and mournfully still
like one on the sidelines of happiness.

And I, the one with shovel and spade,
ponder the merits of unearthing the past
when the past with a will of its own
so adept at moving unaided.

But only a movement and nothing to fear
when the “now” more forceful and overpowering
yet the tremble is felt and footsteps falter
with re-avowals of stubborn denial.

Dig or let lie?

How amazing is the heart
to break and break again
and not ere be done with
the pulse of agony.

Slow running stitches
stabilize the tear
but when the thread runs out
a revealing stare results.

And that stare like a laser beam
cuts right to the core
and in situ cauterizes
the advance of agony.

But who can stand and stare
at a tear that runs amok
when the pulse of agony
beats vehemently?

So I make those running stitches
time and time again
because strange I am to not believe
revealing stares are laser beams!

The sun rises quietly like a peeping tom
and sneaks an intrusive look
through open windows of the mind
made so to be visible by innate honesty.

It’s a moment of joy and sorrow combined
that forces on the sun a hasty rise above
for to move and hide the view
a time to tabulate all discrepancies.

Yet even with the plus/minus,
pros and cons, maybe this, maybe that,
laid in order down the page
the sun still sits bewildered.

The problem in the manner of
one who can discern the truth
is how to navigate through junk
and settle for the meaningful.

And in the time it takes to make
a table that enhances love
and disregards the human force
chaos reigns down on the ground.

Not me, you see, but ‘tis the sun
that dilly dallies far above
until the sink brings in sleep
and night completes the table.

But, lo, the sun must rise again
on a day not as the one before
and must like you and me and them
rework through junk to enhance love.

The sun, the sun; I pity one
that can’t from sleep remain at peace
and un-bewildered hold in hands
the night’s tabulated meaningful!