Kayaking the Wandering Stream

The wandering stream of thought
that runs through your mind
is ever flowing,
and ever changing.
Leave it too long,
and you may not recognize it
when you return.
Its altered course,
its newly carved channels,
its deepening pools,
may cause you to wonder,
“Is this really me?”

The evidence of erosion
may frighten you.
Fond memories drifting away
within translucent ripples
my cause you to chase along the shoreline,
trying to hold the stream still in your mind.
But the stream will not hold still.
You must hold still.
Chasing the stream to its end
where it pours with all others
into an ocean of memories
would surly cause madness.

Sit instead on the sandy bank
in the calm of morning,
and observe the flow.
You will soon understand
that the stream deposits
just as much as it washes away.
It sustains life within its waters,
and along its meandering path.
It turns time with its steady current.
Oh, if we could only stop it,
but we cannot,
and we should not try.

These wandering streams of thought
that run through our minds
ever flowing,
and ever changing,
are for each of us alone
to kayak upon.
And the best we can do
is paddle in the present,
trying not to drift
too far into the past,
or paddle too quickly
into the future.

RLJ - 06/12/2015

Going to a Funeral (A poem about life)

I got up this morning

to continue my journey.

It’s a long goddamned grind it is.

The trip to my funeral I mean.

I’ve been at it for as long as I can remember,

and even before I can remember,

when I didn’t realize where I was going;

when I was a toddler wandering aimlessly;

and later riding my tricycle

half the time in the wrong direction,

away from my funeral,

and toward something else.

Toward something I can no longer recall.

Toward something that became

just the memory of a memory.

Toward something that once was

an audible and visual recollection

that repeated itself again and again

in the back of my mind,

and then slowly faded away.

It was a recollection from another life.

The recollection of the end of that life.

The one before this one.

The one in the wrong direction.

But I’ve been pointed right now

for almost fifty years,

walking the zigzag path

toward my funeral,

knowing full well that I’ll likely drop dead

a few days before arriving.

But with the help of the living,

I expect to show up on time.

RLJ - 2015

God on the Rocks

A man is just a skipping stone.

His fate delivered when he’s thrown.

He measures time in skips and beats.

In skips and beats each year repeats,

with each one shorter than the last,

until they’re coming way too fast.

And though some lives fly far and straight,

some others meet a different fate.

Some to the left or right will dash.

Some lives are but a single splash.

And God is just a boy on shore,

with a pile of rocks, and nothing more.

RLJ - 2015

Cursing Hitler

House lights and street lights flickered and dimmed

as the din of air raid sirens flooded stone corridors,

like ice cold blood rushing down from the hills.

Soon every light went black, and every sound went silent.

Every breath was held, and every hand was clenched.

Even the iron hands of the old town clock seemed too afraid to move.

Time stopped, and the people of London stood motionless.

But on this night, instead of the hum of airplane engines approaching,

the coarse scratch of a wood match against a concrete wall broke the silence;

and the flickering face of a withered old man cast its shadow across the room.

Time moved for him alone as he inhaled from his pipe, and dropped the match.

Pushing through the stillness he opened a door, and stepped into the street.

Glaring into the black sky, he puffed his tobacco.

“I’m sick of your bloody fucking war!” he cursed defiantly,

and dared the sky to answer him.

Tired and proud, he stood alone,

and he waited, unwavering,

for Hitler to respond.

RLJ - 2011

Only the Hemlocks

Raindrops splash on a dashboard Jesus.

The coroner’s van sits black as a crow.

Streetlight halos hang empty of angels,

as hemlocks watch over the chaos below;

over water and blood and gas and oil,

over hush of death, and hand of fate,

over waning cries, and tears and toil,

as they flow into the culvert’s grate;

into the blackness, toward the ocean,

back to the place where life began,

and what remains is towed away,

or placed into the waiting van.

And only the hemlocks stand in witness,

as flashing lights at dawn abate,

and as painted roadside crosses fade,

only the hemlocks wait.

RLJ - 2010