Memory Lane

We recall moments through lenses of
Time, emotion, changing priorities,
Love, death, marriage, divorce, accidents, geography
And surviving photographs.
An event's purity vanishes instantaneously,
Shaped by our perceived place in it,
Its fleeting importance,
Imprinted on a brain cell that,
When retrieved,
Presents only a facsimile of the snapshot,
But it is no longer the exact truth.
We shape shift it unconsciously,
Polishing it,
Raising, lowering, focusing its vitality,
Inventing different supporting evidence and characters
Until they serve their function,
Anchoring us somewhere in time
So we can talk and reminisce,
But always about what might have been
Because the memory has been
Warped, shaved, brought back, stacked away repeatedly.
And each recollection morphs and dog ears the time,
Molding, foxing, blurring into
Sweet lies
We carry and change and use forever.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012

Typing Exam

The teacher turns off the lights and
Starts talking.
She says, Type what I say.
Exam.
Darkness conceals the keys and
Mutes the sound of manual typewriters being struck
And the occasional humming of a Selectric,
Typeball clicking.
Cheating is impossible.
We knew this was coming.
The U above the J.
The C down and left under the F.
Slow down.
Think this through.
Picture the keys in your mind.
But the teacher talks fast.
She says, The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog, and
Pack my box with five dozen liquor jugs,
Which makes us laugh.
If typing in blinding black is a high school ritual,
Then why do I still feel so alone
In crowded rooms,
And at every turn of the day?
Night obscures the unknown
And enriches it with longing.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
 Photo by Etan J. Tal

An Idea for a Song

I thought of an idea for a song
That put me back in a
Small house
Across from the infinite desert.
I'm always in that house and
Its narrow hallways,
Tiled counters,
Always on that sacred ride
In its open carport by
The saturated, scorpion filled canals against
The new school down the street.
That's the song I wanted to compose,
But it kept bleeding into the
Mounds of pool dirt and that
Nameless girl who told me
Something I didn't want to know.
The house resists a melody,
Pushes me away,
As if to say I should look elsewhere.
And on that cold Thanksgiving morning,
Pedaling through the empty neighborhood,
Carrying something,
And getting one of those shivery
Moment feelings
On the back of your neck
And the awareness that it will be important
One day.
So I let the tune go,
Just as I am letting all those aspirations fall away.
A part of me is still on that street
But I just can't get it
And so I release the song and its premise.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012

Doorway

When you walk through a doorway you forget where you were going and why.
Did I need paperclips or a stamp?
On the way to check the mail or get a drink?
But the doorway gives your mind permission to
Let go of where it was,
Moving on,
Done with that,
Free up some space.
That leaves you standing there,
Feeling silly,
Holding the bag,
Wondering if it's a precursor to senility.
You tell yourself it was important,
Or unimportant,
But you close your eyes,
Helping your brain track breadcrumbs,
Relaxing into it,
Trying to feel it,
But it's gone.
Lost it,
Almost nostalgic for it already.
There are more doorways and arches ahead,
And they loom like sirens,
Taunting and calling you.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Photo by Ishai Parasol

A Ring of Red

Nearing the highway,

I wondered if I'd

Turned off the stove.

I washed the

Omelet pan and spatula.

Slid the fork in the dishwasher.

No question.

But the burner?

Indecisive.

Before the turn of

No return

I made a U and reluctantly drove home.

I would be late now,

All for my worry and faulty memory.

Where did it go?

How has something so simple become a

Handicap?

I saw smoke as I neared my neighborhood,

But my home seemed fine.

The stove was not glowing

A ring of red.

I am unsure what is most disturbing,

That it might have been on

Or that it wasn't.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Photo: eHow.com

Dueling Memories

When I was nine
The girl with freckles and straight brown hair
From across the street
Said if I showed her mine
She would show me hers.
I wasn't sure what that meant
But I sensed it was
Naughty and exciting.
We exchanged peaks in the pool
Where splashes and ripples
Obscured everything.
This is what I think about now,
The girl, her challenge, the water
And I wonder where she is,
If she is happy,
How satisfied she is with where life has delivered her and
How often she's been in love.
Is it possible she thinks about the
Strangely shy boy in his bathing suit and,
If so, is it a memory of
Nostalgia or regret?

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Photo by Sergiu Bacioiu