An Island In The Stream
I remember when I was young
and full of testosterone,
ravishing my lovers
with passionate poems.
“I will love you forever”
they all said,
and I meant every word,
But all those forevers
curled and branched and eddied off
like whorls in clouds
drifting beyond sight,
and swirls in streams
cascading down a tumble of time’s boulders,
out of many nows
into the unknowable void of other futures.
And here we are, we two,
like shipwrecked survivors
tossed up from love’s pitiless ocean
onto an island of companionship,
And, what kind of peace?
Tolerance with humor
for the intransigent imperfections
we each insist on maintaining.
And what kind of love?
Gratitude for the acceptance we receive,
for I think we each know
how impossible it would be for any other
to appreciate the genius of each of us.
And now, as we get older,
we’re dead set on getting worse,
from everyone else’s point of view.
I guess we’ll be clinking glasses of champagne
in our own private party
as we tumble along in the stream
carrying us through this lost world.
What I am finally learning
is to stop trying to explain anything:
the ignorant are uncomprehending,
the stupid are omniscient,
my memory is long and my time is short.
That someone understands something of another
without so many words
is a gift.
It frees one from the dreary confinement
of social acceptance,
from hypocritical politeness,
from all of them.
We are outside the mainstream,
beyond the pale,
increasingly forgotten castaways,
And that’s nice.
21 June 2016