I hesitate to post this poem, as it suggests disrespect, but it has some deeper meaning that is valuable. I personally am a follower of Jesus’ teachings, but dont subscribe to religiosity, human-invented dogma and imposed power from of any religion. It is a poem that I thought enough about to use my hand made stamps to render onto paper. The poem itself is by RLB, back sometime in the late 1970s.
I took a couple stanzas from a previous poem ( Verge of a Dream: Unveiled ) and made a graphic.
Another train will
Roll in, I won’t
think it is me
missing you.
When you were
In a curtain of
Silence… with me
Thinking and feeling
But a tag along of
No importance,
Instead
You had planned
without yourself in
The picture only for
me, unexplained and
luckily unexplainable.
Not making up
for a wrong
but like a surprise party
That, that day gave me
Anything I ever
Wanted when
The dream the
Night before
Had said I was
All alone following
Invisible
Behind someone
Who had jumped
The turnstile into
Lives they
Are lessening
by their presence.
RLB 03/17/2023
I did not know
or expect
more than I
should
when returning
was what was said.
As promise was
not a word
You used or
maybe not
for me. And could
only guess
for anyone else.
I did not know
if coming back
was to me.
I’ve always felt
you knew
too much to
talk about truth.
I did not know
and would not
ask or
want an answer
but remembered
is too faint a word
for what I felt as
now wondering if
The embraces
were more or
less the same
for us.
RLB 02-10-2023
A lot we know and
So much we don’t
as it could be
about anyone, true.
The life was not
bad,
Mine, yours,
with laughing
at times, it missed
by inches, or days
Or other souls
being worse.
For very last
acts, after all
have been done
and
whether in words
or ideas
they will not
compare or preach,
or judge. Then
I won’t think
Of you with
Someone else
Skilled and knowing
Painful In dreams.
In denim, you
Move toward the
Water. Glimpses of
A suit in two
Pieces,
When a
plaid blouse
Slips from
the shoulder
and the sandy
wash returns to
the ocean.
RLB 02-6-2023
Some things that don’t
And some that matter
Your white sweater
Clinging, an oriental
Blanc de blanc
To you until unveiled
Or until the end
Of suffering by,
There is no way
To know how,
Among that which
Does not matter, by
His own hand.
There are times
And some without time.
Not watching
A newsreel
Because in watching,
Watching is something
That will not and wants
Not change.
Except, wanting parents,
That change, that now
They are gone.
Give me a gift.
Hold me when
You worry
Give me two gifts
Love me without
Feeling sorry.
I won’t ask for three
Though so many
There were to give.
RLB 01/30/2023
and an edit
Some things that don’t
And some that matter
Your white sweater
Clinging, a
Blanc de chine
To you until unveiled
Or until the end
Of suffering by,
There is no way
To know,
Among that which
Does not matter, by
His own hand, how.
There are times
And some without time.
Not watching
A newsreel
Because in watching,
Watching is something
That will not and wants
not change.
Except, wanting parents,
Only
that now
They are gone.
Give me a gift.
Hold me when
You worry
Give me two gifts
Love me without
Feeling sorry.
I won’t ask for three
Though so many
There were
Left to give.
I don’t need
To fall down
Or try and win
Then fail again.
Thinking of
You not thinking
of me is
all it takes
to release the
teardrops in me.
I don’t need
to wake up
scared in the
middle of the
night.
Or give up like
I might do
from the toll
of years that
anyone can see
and I feel.
Thinking of
how forever
ends apart
is all it takes
to release the
teardrops
from my heart.
If I’ve hoped
for something
and it was
good and lost.
Or happiness comes
at so much
cost. It won’t
make me feel
let down. Because
having your
last kiss is
all there is
and in
their release
no more
the time
will be when
sweet teardrops
forget
to fall.
RLB 11-29-2022
Song to a poem.
The barber pole
starts to slowly
spin.
Sky so dark
a fall downpour
has begun.
The owner staring
past the potted
plants, he’s
too weary
to arrange the comic
books.
Tapered comb,
in one chest pocket,
the scissor’s finger
rest, peaking from
the other. Seeing
through the drenched
window, black
witch, yellow moon,
school
kids painted for
Halloween.
Waiting for the
next crew cut
Its the watch
must
be that causes
time to have
become
so reluctant.
Pull open
the door to the
grammar school
in the morning.
And hear
the gray bell
warning of
the days’ beginning.
For you dwell
on hope the
girl in a plaid
dress is at your
group table.
And what was
learned today,
how once
recess and lunch
are over, is three
p.m. completes
a lasting trinity.
And eventually
a crooked
walk, before the
storefront Iglesias,
witnessing what
I do not. The
spring arrived,
the soft paper
pictures taken
from the walls
of the school
building hall.
Uncontemplated
in the dusty August
on the playground.
Romances and jousts
move
not an inch,
as they stall and
capture the flag
indifferent under
her eye
settling nothing for
the girl in plaid.
RLB 09-15-2022
And once the hours
Walking beside
The creek
Are complete,
I can read to you,
marquez
or dostoyevsky
In a fine light
I don’t care.
Then
can you read
to me
the little prince
in our winged chairs.
Stopping, not from
weariness or
boredom.
Except, better to
tend
the vines of
queen elizabeth,
tomorrow,
for needing
the quiet
rest of bed.
At another time
offering to
a mother,
a child,
the hope
someday, of
serenity’s nest.
And like you,
Saturday, the
night also’s
my
favorite as a
rain about us,
meaningful
and private
saying
we can be
absorbed
in safety, for all
danger is bowed
in place,
with schemes
confused until the
shielding rain
is done, unmindful,
in its soft
cleansing.
RLB 09-10-2022