Beloved Delusion

I almost got it, yeah,
I almost nailed it, framed it,
encased it in the purest amber,
whatever you want to call it,
preserved it
like the thickest, sweetest
raspberry jam,
yeah, that feeling of absolute joy,
of unconditional optimism,
that tiny sparkle that would
make for a splendid sunny day
or a glorious evening
with no ending in sight
a perpetual spring
a real flower that never withers
a love like a phoenix
a dog that never dies
Mum and Dad always being there
in warm flesh
the voices of my children
always singing and laughing

And then, puff, I lost it

I thought I had devised the method
to recall it at will
to summon it against
the coming darkness
to take just a spoonful of it
and chase away the taste of tears
I thought I was clever
I thought I had the philosopher’s stone

I was wrong

Thinking of a Dead Fish on the Shores of Lake Erie

I stood there in the summer wind
Expecting to fall
In the grips of philosophy,
Where some life-altering
Revelation would hit me,
Would tumble me to tears.
Nothing more than the wind came.
I was saving ladybugs,
Caught in the fine seaweed,
Like rubies on emerald velvet,
From the flood of each tiny wave
And all the seagulls slept
And all the ducks.
The same shy surf that lapped at my shoes,
Played with the dead fish
And made it look as if it still swam.
Maybe it was swimming,
In the distant dream
Of another water.
There was a lazy, unassuming peace
In watching that fish
On the shores of Lake Erie.