SAYING FAREWELL

 

Brighton by the sea

Damp and cold, the

Angry waves pounding

On the deserted beach.

The leaded grey clouds

Hurl across an icy sky,

Pausing only to empty

Their “bladder” on the way

To some unseen forever.

I stood there, clutching  

The remains of my parents,

Heavy packets of ash,

Waiting to be discharged

Into a damp winter wind.

Then, the grey particles

Fled towards the sea,

Leaving me behind with

Little more than tears and

A lifetime of blurred memories.

Suddenly, a rainbow appeared,

A colorful arc across a pewter sky,

Reflecting a sun in all its brilliance;

Then, just as suddenly, the rain,

The wind, and the lonely silence.

 

          JON GOLDSTEIN

 

JUST SOME FISHIN'

Driftin' about in an open boat,

Fog wrapped around you,

Like a wet overcoat.

Feet tucked under you

In a painful slouch,

Wonderin' what the hell

Made me desert my couch.

Thoughts of fishing seemed

Like just some kind of lark,

Now I'm worried I'll be dinner

For some big old shark.

There aint nothing biting

Except this morning chill,

How could I be thinking

It would be some kind of thrill?

Guess I'll close my eyes and

Hope that line will give a tug,

Mebbe some mermaid will

Pop up and give me a hug.

IN THE COLD

Too many years staring

Down at my feet, 

Too many nights

Too frightened to sleep.

The images that appeared

Left me shivering with cold,

The painful thoughts choking

All hopes of growing old.

A dawn now descends

With a sky painted gray,

Tears on frozen cheeks

Reflecting another lost day.

I plod along slowly embraced

By these sad thoughts,

A lifetime of hope

Having never been wrought.

About "This" Fork

What is so special about "this"fork?

To spear some fish, or perhaps some pork?

This shiny tool is just lying there

Awaiting my desire to attack the fare.

An eating utensil cannot think

And when finished work it lands in the sink.

My fork works hard but it has no hope,

The morsels left on it are removed by soap.

I blame this tool for my bulging waist

It performs its duty with haste, not taste.

This trusty fork held in my fist

Will be there always to "assist".

THROUGH THE LENS

 

Thoughts blowing in the wind,

Visions like autumn leaves

Swirling about, momentarily

Caught in the lens of clarity, only

To be swept away again, sans focus.

I am THAT camera, the magical toy

Created for today’s memories left

To search for an image tomorrow.

Why this struggle to wade through

The vast wasteland of hedonism

If there is nothing worth saving?

Perhaps, I am just that tyro with

A camera only to have a blind eye.

The journey continues, propelled by

The belief that beauty does exist and

Can be saved through the lens of hope.

 

NOW AND THEN

How often I have wanted

To drift back through the years,

Searching for the “happy times”,

You know, the ones without pain and

The unquenchable thirst for…….?

Without even a hangover, or

One that would not be remembered.

There would be no back pain, nor

The memories of knee replacements.

The hearing would be better and

The eyes clear, covered only with

The “cool” aviator wrap rounds.

Hair was slick then, the sideburns

Giving way to a chin not marred by

Scruffy growth or poor judgment.

The music was slow, time stood still,

Summers never seemed to end

Nor did our innocence, or dreams.

Who knew the word “nostalgia”, or

Could envision using it in a sentence?

Days seem to pass by now, crowding

More memories into smaller books.

The pages are worn, some marred by

Sadness, loneliness and, yes, even death.

The richness of life Is there, chronicled

In a weathered face now lined and scarred.

The eyes still twinkle, though less often,

And the stomach protruding just a bit

Over blue jeans not in need of a belt.

Yet, this is the morning of a new day,

Without need of drifting nor looking back.