Poem of the week ... archive

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In my own remembering,
I can see so many things.
Days of bliss were much too brief.
Longer nights of pain and grief.
In my own remembering,
all my sins forgive.

Memory, can never be,
mere fact or history.
Memory, is more complex;
of mute agenda and subtext.
Memory, will flow and ebb,
according to one's mental web.
Memory, a visceral mix,
of deja vu and subtle tricks.

In my own remembering,
thwarted dreams will all take wing.
Flights of fancy, foolish lies,
float in ether's cloudless skies.
In my own imagining,
I begin to live.

Memory, the neurone taps,
the fiery spark at the arch synapse.
Memory, the self entraps,
the slant or view in happy snaps.
Memory, applauds and claps,
our weary march to last collapse.
Memory, marks time elapsed,
a heartbeat drawn on virtual maps.

In my own remembering,
just a cog or underling,
was never made for real fame.
Cared not a fig to play the game.
In my own dissembling,
all my sins forgive.

Memory, is mercury,
a silver flash of the quick adept.
Memory, is emory,
it smoothes a path, and slicks the step.
Memory, can gather wool,
unless it's used, trained or schooled.
Memory, the survivor's tool.
Memory, is lost to fools.

In my own remembering,
unhappy themes remove thy sting.
Regret may prove the heart impure.
The loss of love must be endured.
In my own remembering,
all my sins forgive.

Memory, will often be,
a twisted tale of mystery.
Memory, can be repressed,
or triggered by an idle jest.
Memory, so sure to vex,
unstring the mind, the bow and flex.
Memory, and core defects,
become combined in blind reflex.
Memory, is never proof,
to hold aloft or keep aloof.
Memory, is claw and tooth,
an ancient art and modern truth.

In my own remembering,
the myth of self's - a holy being.
Righteous faith is never wrong.
No doubt infects my public song.
In my own remembering,
I begin to live.