The Trace of Memory


Reflecting the slight
light of the sky 
in broken panes of glass
and unspoken sighs 
to myself
trying for those real images of my imagining
mumbling to my self about lost ideas
long gone 
and lost ideals 
that still haunt 
all those things I need to write 
that I've almost written a million times or more
building pieces of that one big long piece that I probably never will

(but I’ll keep telling myself that I will and I will keep needing and keep trying)

all those little pieces that are really just pieces of that one piece and all my longer pieces splinter into little versions little facets of that same piece an un-spoken sphere of near-thoughts from a far realm that flirts with the light from the sky in broken panes of glass as I drive by in broken buildings in this old city before its time before its through thought and thrum of engines in the night and drying eyes forever wet and spent and spelling words in another language the language of my youth the language of my death a trellis of trembling love above and the ground hugging me to my self in the night in those empty buildings in the earth and peering through that glass those shards that splintered sight of things I've known and forgotten like all those smells I've lost from the paths in the mountains of a dream of childhood like the soft needles lost under foot that got caught in the tread of the boot like the soft sound of the burbling stream along my side

(that you didn’t even know that you wanted to needed to know what it was telling you that you needed to remember that you could not forget what it spoke of what it’s still saying to someone else or to no one at all whether they’re listening or not as you were though you’ve long forgotten what it was telling you because in forgetting how to listen you’ve forgotten what you’ve heard)

with me along for the ride twice-over crossing and re-crossing to make it up the valley to the lake to the meadow on the shore of that pure blue depth cradled gently in the soft palms of that valley ridge-edges hard against the sky

(like the glass? yes, but like the just-edge of the glass --the light was in the water, the sky was in the surface)

where we laid in the grass and let the blood return from its journey to our feet and nursed our blisters and twisted our socks of the icy stream water and soaked up the sun and slept

7 thoughts on “The Trace of Memory

  1. Stand out line for me: a trellis of trembling love above
    Splendid.
    Was odd to have such singular, introspective poetry and then suddenly company. Shame they weren’t part of the earlier monologue to create dialogue.
    Nice work though.

    Like

    • I often have that little second voice, sometimes I leave him out of the picture, sometimes I let him speak. I’ve been striving to follow the “less is more” maxim. Perhaps I’ll re-post this in a more singular form or work that voice in a bit more fluidly. Have to decide if “suddenly” is what I want…My pieces are never really finished anyway…
      Thank you for that–

      Like

  2. Sweet landing at the end here. Love the polar opposite tone and energy and look and voice. And yes we are awfully redundant no? The cliche nothing new under the sun is one that’s on my mind way too much.

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    • Thank you!
      And yes, I often wish the old Bard had never written that line…it can be a very discouraging sentiment for an artist. I just have to keep reminding myself that it didn’t stop him from continuing to produce…

      Like

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