Who is to blame in this game
of life? Who controls endings?
Beginnings? Who has a say
in how these things play out?
Who are the team captains?
Do they know what’s happening?
In life, there are players, coaches,
referees, judges, spectators,
commentators, analysts, rivalries,
and concessions. Is there anyone
to blame when we lose this game?
I say no because I know that
life can’t be tamed or controlled.
There is no way to predict
the outcome. There is no way
to get our hands on a script.
In this life, it is easy to play
the blame game by leaving
out our own names. Some
choose not to engage. Most
decide to play. Don’t give
blame, and take responsibility,
Remember that this game
turns out to be our reality.
Today, the car is in cruise control.
I take it slow and go with the flow.
Today, I take a ride down Memory
Lane. I revisit past pain and travel
through time frames: different days.
I unravel. I tear up gravel to navigate
an unknown fate. I carry weight;
I talk to my shadows: old versions
of myself. Sometimes, I ask them
for help – words of advice. Miles
into Memory Lane, I face pain
and embrace joy all the same.
I see old friends of mine the way
they were before I last saw them.
I notice houses I used to live in;
I recognize yards I used to play in.
I begin to see places I have been.
Today, I met with Father Time
and rode down Memory Lane
before any new memories came.
Each day, an old book closes. The story
is finished; the pen runs dry. Each page
is filled with a bunch of smaller stories:
memories: words that echo through
the skulls of its reader. One day,
the story we are navigating through
will expire as we retire – as the fire
dies – souls will fly into open skies.
Lies will become truths. Rough will
become smooth. Old age will become
youth. We are the characters inside
an open book that will, one day,
be closed – to be open once again
by a different pair of hands.
Until the book closes, look closer
at the plot and decide your ending:
one better than you ever thought.
Keep writing your story. Make it
a good one. We are still writing;
let’s make a book that someone
would want to pick up and read:
a plant grown from a small seed.
A Poet’s dream is to be heard
and not seen. A Poet’s dream
is to create, to wait, and to
discover one’s own fate.
A Poet’s dream manifests itself
in words, sounds, and mounds
of half-written ideas found
under the surface: underground.
A Poet dreams a dream brighter
than the sunlight and better than
a good night under the stars’
inviting sight. A Poet’s dream
is to change the world –
to rearrange things to release
one’s hidden pain. Just like
ghosts, Poets do not show them-
selves, but they do know them-
selves. A Poet’s dream
is to live a life that can manifest
itself before and during the night.
Up and away
To the top. You
And I don’t stop
Until we get
To the top.
There is no need
To pack anything.
We aren’t coming
Back. We explore
This steep hill
And its wrath.
We push on
Despite the pain.
So much to gain
In our journey.
With each step,
We move past
Regret. We climb
Out deep holes
That were carved
Inside our souls.
We rise. Heading
To the very top:
A better setting.