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| Lynn White |
Penetration
You tell me I can look inside you
penetrate you,
delve amongst what’s hidden there,
know you.
And yes, I know you.
Know that you hide yourself
in subterfuge.
Know there’s both fantasy and fact
in the mixture
you expose
in your stories.
And they’re hidden inside.
I know that you bar the door,
and don’t let anyone in.
Make up stories.
Or spit out what comes first
into your head.
Let it escape.
Then, if it’s true,
hide it,
cloak it in make believe,
in fantastic lies.
So no one knows
you.
Yes, I can see inside,
see the grand mixture
of nonsense,
of deceit and anxiety,
truth and concern
for privacy.
But I can’t separate out one from
the other.
And it doesn’t matter, you see, I
like
the mystery.
But you are wrong to think that
when I look inside you
I know who you are.
Only that you are a mystery.
And that I like mysteries.
I can understand them.
Now and Then
Now the clouds are
pressing down
making everything
grey,
everything misty.
It’s impossible to
discern which way
people are facing.
It looks like
everyone
is facing both ways,
so it is impossible
to know who to follow,
impossible to know
which path to take,
which is the good and
which is bad.
Then, in the old days
it was all so clear.
This was the way.
These were the good
guys,
the brave guys with
the guns,
sending out their
scouts
from the circled
wagons
of peaceful pioneers
in search of a better
life
in the vast empty
land.
Protecting them from
the bad guys,
the savages,
the cowardly braves
with the bows and
arrows
and scalping knives.
It didn’t always go
to plan.
But the cavalry
usually
arrived just in time.
And the good guys
always won
in the end.
Didn’t they?
Regrets
Regrets
are best forgotten,
laid
to rest in peace or
in
restless confusion.
Dump
them with the other debris,
the
detritus of the past
no
longer needed.
They
will be taken away in time,
disposed
of
in
the future,
by
the future.
Displaced
by more things
to
regret
and
forget.
And
by more things to keep
and
remember.
