Published in Carmel Pine Cone Jun 2, 1983
One-Hundred-Year-old spider web,
Designed to catch the moon,
This giant harp, ethereal,
Still plays the Brooklyn tune.
The notes seem quite oblivious
To time, as decay marches…
With every man and breeze that passes
Through your Gothic, granite arches.
Cormorants sat on the pier by my house,
Stretching their wings to catch the sun…
They gathered the warmth like manna,
As their spiritual quests had begun.
Their wingtips pointed towards heaven,
As if announcing they are free…
Following the sun like a second hand,
They suddenly returned to the sea.
After my thirty years in the Northwest,
I felt the urge to fly…
Sitting on a rock at Boiler Bay,
I reached my arms up to the sky.
I took a walk through the forest today,
Feeling oh so incredibly small…
Where was my place in this beauty?
Did I ever exist at all?
I no longer live where I used to live…
Anima does not follow the change.
I feel a loss of connection,
When new locations all seem strange.
I made a doctor’s appointment,
I forgot it was tomorrow…
I likely won’t return anything…
Involving tools or money I’ve borrowed.
I used to scan views of the ocean,
Imagining the distant shore…
Now I rehearse every day in my mind,
Where to place each step on the floor.
I should start recording my memories,
All in order on typewritten pages…
Yet they dim even in my own mind,
As each persistent memory ages.
I am more than aware my faculties,
Are becoming more diminished.
The incredible life I once remembered,
Will remain a book unfinished.
