Seven Days of Sinbad

Sunday remains a day of hope and dread

Anticipating Monday's stressful dawn

Still thinking all's well as we go to bed

Uncertain what we base our feelings on.

We sleep and dream out of a known unknown

Clinging to notions of our hoped-for schemes,

Wild flowers in the night like mushrooms grown

Out of the shadows of remembered dreams.

When we wake what will be will be our week,

Those flowers giving sense to what we seek,

Each hour a step, the journey of our lives

Comes at us, less a going than arrives.

By Tuesday we become inured to guilt

As by the hour those flowers fade and wilt.

We, blameless in our failures, still believe

Come Friday we can find a fertile seed

That sprouts eternal in each night’s reprieve

And gives us back the hope we sorely need.

Saturday only the day wholly ours

We find the time to spend and tend those flowers.

Arbeit Macht Frei?

KLK

10/12/17

What Just Happened

Years ago, I worked in a music club.

Most venues have the stage on one extreme

While opposite the bar is placed well back.

The seating for the audience between

Orients either way depending on

What patrons lack in their lives day to day

And which performance fills the transient void.

I often felt the show behind the bar

Attracted more attention as the sky

Not looking at the sunset but away

Can have more subtle colors.

    Similarly,

What is important any time occurs

At angles to the primary affair.

We may believe the cameras have caught

The meaning and definitive direction,

And our own reasons need to follow their

Interpretive selective frames forever,

But was the eye evolved for seeing only

In one direction, and the mind for thinking

Heads or tails like a coin toss yes or no?

Perhaps you want details about the music,

Descriptions of the acts, comedians,

And bands, the owners, and the audiences.

These you will not receive, not anywhere,

Because they were the focus at the time

While now the purpose is the opposite,

In order to remind you what you missed

In other places and times, even now.

It seems a shame to waste a metaphor

The way the tables often had unfinished

Food and drinks left for servers to remove

As the lights came up, music ending, when

The need to clean then, to explain now, means

We simply set the stage to go again,

Revisioning our lives repeatedly.

Some memories like money in the bank

Gain interest over time, while others more

Like lies and small crimes we deny for shame.

It is like finding our own bodies dead,

And whether on a chair or on the floor,

No matter: We are not there anymore.

KLK

10/8/17