The Rich Vegetarian

An Examined Life

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Category: Poetry (page 2 of 5)

I will love

As joy begins,
let it swell and surrender
sweeping all within its grasp and wake,
filling up lives and hearts, lighting homes and offices, spilling on to the streets and turning on fireplaces.

The streets are sprayed with gold.

And we are left gasping and grasping,
wondering at the magic of it all.

Dreaming and weaving dreams, smiling and singing,
amazed that any of this may even last,
grasping at the magic of the moment, its evanescence and luminescence.

Beauty lasts but a moment,
art lives a lifetime,
statues in stone rest for centuries.

We exist a second, our stories live a little longer,

And I will love as long as it lasts.

Amme, Why?

The world is always asking me to change.

It knows more than I do; it’s been here a lot longer than I have.

It begins innocuously enough, talk less. Oh, why? You know you have to give others a chance to speak too.

When you know what they are saying is, we JUST DON’T WANT TO HEAR YOU ANY MORE.

But you shut up nicely because you don’t want to shut anyone else down.

And then it moves to, don’t talk all that much, not with him or him or him or them. Oh, why? He’ll think you like him. But I do! Ohh, you do? Well, you have to be safe. Don’t let him get close. Ahh, therein lies the problem… I already did!

And so it goes on, talk less. Go out more. Hang out more. Don’t let them get a wrong impression. Don’t give anyone a chance to talk… and so on.

Amme, I am so tired and spent, playing these games and jumping through hoops.

Amme, you never instructed me much as a kid, and now the world is hellbent on giving me instruction… or giving me hell for not playing along.

Amme, why does it feel like I was born free and happy, only to act smart and play dumb? Why is there a seemingly mysterious world of interaction and power play, and how do I learn the tricks?

Amme, is there a world for someone like me?

A Poem for S

She came with a little cash, a stomach full of dreams,
Leaving behind a family that cared little, or perhaps not at all.
And she came hungry and fearful, or really fearless,
Went from a city to another, naive and hopeful,
Free from fear or hate.

And then I think, dearest,
If there is a God I can see and touch and feel,
It is your innocence.

And I think about you
wondering if you are happy, and if I may share some love, some good fortune,

It’s yours — today, tomorrow, forever.

No Trace

You land a new job, move into a new life,
Set up shop, bring your things in (a few or many),
Meet the neighbors, make new connections, strike up conversation.

Go out for coffee, set up introductory lunches… create a new life in here.

And so it continues on, through vacations and holiday parties and babies and advancing grays and deaths, and so on.

Then one day, it’s time to move on. “So quick? I am sorry, yes. There is no requirement any more. Here is a box.”

And thus it ends.

Pack all that you have gathered into a cardboard box
No time to linger or dawdle, certainly no time for farewells and goodbyes.

Get out quick, and the waters close over your head… as if you never existed.

The coffees and conversations begin to vanish into distant memory, irrelevance, obscurity.

Characters lose definition, quirks and edges.

And that’s really all a life within a life is worth, a person in an organization amounts to.

“And the friendships and connections and shared memories and good work and inside jokes and… what of it all?”

“Nothing, really.”

A matter of happenstance and shared time, so collect your winnings and move on.

Leave no trace behind.