NOTE FROM LB
Short and bittersweet, or so many people may say. But if “art” means being totally honest in one’s work, then this is my acme of artistry. (Or maybe just my bad imitation of wisdom gained by reaching an unexpectedly old age?)
I wish I had loved as I was loved.
I wish I had returned all the fire.
But I was desperate for ten thousand wrong things,
And they were all that could feed my desire.
NOTE FROM LB
For reasons I don’t know, I’ve been dreaming about my high school days lately, and this has put me in mind of all the wonderful discussions only teenagers nearing their twenties can acceptably have. Which in turn reminds me of two elements pretty much missing from my life these days – my mother and God. Which of course leads to the probably-not-anywhere-near-immortal question:
When I was in high school, in the days before
Anything was P.C., Tiersky the tenor sax man
And I would throw around our ideas about God.
NOTE FROM LB
Speaking of Fathers Day, and fathers, this poem was written when my father was alive. My mother was upset because “you’ve written about other people’s fathers, why not your own?” I don’t think she or my father ever saw this. If one of them had, I would have heard about it. Wouldn’t ?
I don’t know my father, never did.
NOTE FROM LB
The past is always prolog. I believe that what I love most about existence is the wonderful inefficiency of the eternal recurrence so many of us do our best to ignore. What am I talking about? Well, the last time I wrote about it, I said this:
I have lived many lives.
NOTE FROM LB
No better demonstration of how history repeats itself than this poem, written at a turning point in my life long ago. The specifics are different, but at this turning point in world history, on this particular holiday, the need and the question remain the same.