(Young socialist
At Berkeley in 1938,
In 1942, Lieutenant
In a bunker command,
Naval Intelligence
In San Francisco,
My mother shipped troops
To the South Pacific.)
Sometimes my internal navigating
Doesn’t really change,
It shifts a focus, and harks back
To what I put into
The reveries when
The moments and time
That look like mile marks
Clicked by, green interstate
Data standing sentry as needed,
While I now turn toward some opening,
Wide potential of salvation,
Giving in to an existential demand
For just a bit of knowing.
Here in a calm reflecting
I don’t much care for ongoing
Debates or too much parsing.
I know what I know, feel what I feel,
And those are my whole places.
Some understand
Others don’t, and
Some love anyway,
But there’s no agitation any longer.
Longer is what I
No longer have.
What is this one whole life,
The one that’s mine?
I turn this way and that, casting
Gaze and seeking possibility, and
Looking in the rear view mirror
The lessons either fade
Or bloom, and one way
Or another seek fulsome,
In their quiet possibilities.
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