Thursday, July 11, 2013

First Hand

11 July 2013
Folks who know you think,
"Ah, yes, I saw that coming," or
"Huh. I always liked her, I wonder
if I was mistaken" or, to a friend,
"I dodged that bullet."
Strangers think--
well, who knows what they think,
but they must think something?
They're the ones with questions
they won't ask-- it wouldn't be polite.
But they wonder which
part of you someone couldn't live with,
and when they'll have the knowledge
first hand.


11 July 2013

No one was really popular back then,
or if they were, there was a different standard
that had little to do with what we wore
or who we dated.

Longevity was key, and few had it.
Most of us came and went like tides
and the flotsam they deliver,
then drag back out.

I never thought of myself as part of the beach.
I always felt odd-man-out until now. It's clearer
twenty years on--we were all flotsam. No one really
belonged on those beaches, though some stayed put
longer than others, estranged in a different sense.
We belonged together on the waves, or longing
from the beach, bound by memories,
tears and letters;

We belonged on the waves, moving,
always moving,
waiting to see the next beach,
wondering if this or this or this would finally be
the place we never leave.

George MacDonald

"Home is ever so far away in the palm of your hand, and how to get there it is of no use to tell you. But you will get there; you must get there; you have to get there. Everybody who is not at home, has to go home."

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