And so I turn a page and see
a future moment ahead of me:
a future memory of what’s in store,
of the past I have lived before.
There before my mind’s eye
I think about the time I die;
the moments I took without thought
and hard lessons that life me taught.
A distant time on a windy beach,
the sweet taste of a lover’s reach;
many moments encased in gold
sit in mind, wait to be told.
And on this page a picture bright
my face wrinkled with some fight;
yet the sound of my children’s voices
remembering I’ve made good choices.
But this is not the final page
upon which chance sets the stage:
I snap right back to this time
knowing, now, I’ve done just fine.
poem about memory
Between stardust and I
High, dry memory throws up:
a tying of knots in a tent in a house
(which reminds me of music in grade 3
and Mrs Whatsherface with the immovable hair).
Moments of wander (or is it wonder?)
sprinkle my memory like some hopeful
seeds scattered in the zephyrs of tomorrow.
“These moment will haunt you later in life!”
a voice whispered then, which only reached me now.
(I really do not know if I’ll ever feel this moment again).
But blackjacks appear out of nowhere
(yes, that’s what we called them!
they stuck to our socks and pants
like memories we don’t want)
and suddenly I’m back:
waiting for my Dad to drive away,
with a heavy feeling inside my tummy I didn’t understand
(until I studied Psychology much later on).
Or that time, etched in black trauma,
of being betrayed for believing someone’s pain
or trying my best but not succeeding.
Gentle, gentle, over the top, boys, mighty Gentleman!
You know not what lies ahead.
Mr Individualist 