the past


I get older, 

(and it’s insidious)

and I find that

the holidays

slip further

and further

from my grasp. 

All the traditions,

the narratives of my youth,

traipse before me

like a parade

of mockeries

designed to fasten me 

to a world

that no longer


I bathe in these motifs,

even as I puzzle

how to manifest them

for my son. 

I don’t know…

maybe it’s a few too many beers,

(and melancholy loves a buzz)

but I get wistful and jealous

of these ghosts that haunt me.

It’s Christmas

and I’m reaching out

to snatch at its foggy edges

and draw back to me

some semblance

of place. 


Recollecting through the fog

It seems that life
is just a cruel arc
wherein the euphoric moments
and indelible memories
will later cast the shadows
of nostalgia and melancholy
on every delicate frame.
The glorious recollections of the past
become a bitter-stinging slap;
a reminder
of what was once delight,
and passion.
So all new endeavors
carry the risk
of deflated expectations
and unattainable hopes.
The taste may fade,
but the urge to keep eating
drives us to gorge
on feelings and dreams
long-past their sell-by-date.

Old pal

I once told you
about me…
I shared
my muse
and my inner-self….
If you continue
to turn it
back on to me,
like a wedge,
I will be forced
to forget you.
It is the worst thing
I can think to do;
as the alternative,
of assault,
seems unlike me…
and risky.
You know my wonts
and they were shared
on secret
and in the trust
of an old
Let that be