Old poems
in shed dusted
half-light
with worn pencil
etching and
scribbled-out pen
strokes
sing nostalgia like
there were voices
on the paper.
Tomorrow is
too late to
remember
and yesterday
never was.
The tears and
smiles on faces,
for long too young,
now old, and
the articles and
facts and
fortunes
are old science, but
yesterday
can never planned ahead
for.
Old poems
and notes
on Buddhism
sing to me
the hope
of a younger
man whose
life was ahead of
him.
An Olympian existence
of love and ambrosia
that never was.
Now it is
the pyrrhic victory
I have yet to win.
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