Affairs of the Imagination

it’s always been there…

my flirtation

with a runaway imagination

a cozy affair unhindered by reality

everything I wanted it to be

worlds opened like oysters

in the fertile fields of my mind

mysteries solved uninhibited

access to a fantasy land

that does not sleep or confine

the affairs in my imagination

which are open for all to see

my ideas wander on the verge of reality

I know the end will come for me

soon enough my body will be free

to fly where my imagination

can’t currently see

With These Eyes

I can tell when people tell lies

with these eyes

their body movements a tell

making it easy to see

for an old man like me

decades of experience resides

compartmentally

in my brain

lurking behind my tired eyes

I’ve seen the horror

of war

I keep it behind a door

behind these eyes

I look forward

to each new day

putting aside yesterday

a daily exercise

behind these

still alert

eyes

Ain’t It Grand?

I knew an old lady who use to say

Ain’t it grand?

Every day

about subjects big and small

on local people

and the town hall

her positive attitude

on all subjects

earned everyone’s gratitude

and the local newspaper ran

her column about the community

and her love for this land

readers looked forward every week

to read about their town’s activities

that were so unique

alas!

all good things come to an end

but she’ll always be remembered

as a godsend

Diary Reverie

the writer waited until he hit a century

before releasing the rights to his diary

while flipping through the pages one night

his still-active imagination took flight

and he was a young man again

as far as he could ascertain

and a young lady came near

and whispered in his ear

they went for a walk

and had a lovely talk

and

when the writer’s son

came to visit the next day

the old man had passed away

with a smile on his face

that showed

he was in a better place

Requiem for a Hoarder

decades of newspapers and magazines cluttered every room, silent witnesses to bygone eras, nestled alongside a lifetime of eclectic collections in the gathering gloom

when the coroner came to collect the old man, his worn-out body in his favorite chair in front of a fan, he was surrounded with trinkets and displays from his good old days

every room was piled high with one man’s treasure yet another man’s junk, standing lamps, piles of clothes from ages past that stunk worse than a skunk

boxes and crates with no labels butted against couches and tables, towers of books with subjects ranging from science to early fables, rolls of cables, and an assortment of turntables

souvenirs from other countries, plastic children’s toys that still made noise, clocks off all kinds, dried food, ancient weather vines, and assorted other sundries

missing were photos of family, a lonely man severed from humanity, living in an alternate reality, his life a mere triviality, his collections becoming his center of gravity

they said the old man had a mental disorder, a condition not unknown to many people trying to install order into their chaotic life, and turning into a hoarder

School Of Hard Knocks

when I was growing up my grandfather use to say

that boy is going to find out everything the hard way

if he comes out of his childhood alive

there’s a damn good chance he’ll survive

I was an eager student of the School of Hard Knocks

my troubles were never pebbles they were always rocks

taking the least traveled pathway had a price

I come close to losing my life twice

there was never really a choice for me

I’ve always been on the verge of tragedy

but in these later days of my life

I look back and appreciate the strife

and accept my past and my destiny

whatever that happens to be