One Hundred : Four By Six

A Valentine’s Day poem?

Certainly. (Who needs clichés)

ONE HUNDRED

He was seventy-two
While she was twenty-eight.
A round number – Perfect!
Though only they thought that.

Newborn

NEWBORN

She knows nothing
She doesn’t know that
She knows without knowing
Best not to tell her that though
It would take years and years
For her to recover her grace
Effortless effortlessness
No need for knowing
Unknown knowing

Hands Free And Spinning

HANDS FREE AND SPINNING

Once we recognise
That we have
No reliable knowledge
Of our future
Beyond conjecture
Nor any absolute control of it
We can only be left with uncertainty.

Of course it is more comfortable
Not to dwell on these truths too much though.

Formernesses Recalled

FORMERNESSES RECALLED

“Is it up?” she wantonly cried
I knew not how and yet
For lost were we in that
Conjecture manifest

… Untongued

… Momentarily

… Eternally

I knew not how and yet
Still know not yet
In retrospect

Grasping at straws as I may
As any of us ever may
This camel’s broken back
Added to the score

Adieu
Godspeed

Regardless

REGARDLESS

You always have my respect
And on a good day you know that

Tho’ on a bad day you don’t believe it
And on a hyperated day it is irrelevant

Nonetheless, here I am regardless
In the vanguard, soldiering on