Where Is Poor Boy?

Every memory was fuzzy--or, more accurately, foggy--

Literally, when he tried to think about his past,

Details would elude him, blurred memories confused him

He'd tried, and failed, for days to remember.

Something bad had happened.   What was it?

He had been walking, when he used to walk

Properly, on legs, like all humans.  Human legs.

He could remember that.  Walking.  

He'd walked that day instead of--what? 

Instead of driving, he'd walked.  Yes, to save

Energy or money or both.  No matter,

He'd thought it best and he was undeterred.

"I walked," he thought, knowing at once

That he finally had a breakthrough.

"I remember! I remember!" He congratulated

Himself on this major breakthrough of memory.

But what after that?  What had happened?

I walked.  I walked. Something bad happened.

And now I'm here.  Where is here?  

Not a place I've hever heard about.

He'd lost all track of time, and couldn't tell

How long it'd been since he'd left his body--

The human one--and occupied this one.

This one, he'd never seen, at least not yet.

He hadn't looked down since he'd arrived.

Wherever this was.  The vision he now had

Was more an awareness of being

Than one of human sight.

Did he have eyes?  Was he himself?

He didn't know.  There was no one

There to tell him anything, validate anything.

He was only half certain he even existed.

But there was that:  the thoughts.

An awareness of being.  Most certainly.

How he'd gotten there, he wasn't sure.

Something about walking, it was a bad day.

But nothing else came to him.

Not his wife, not his children, at least not yet.

Perhaps his awareness was protecting him

From the realization of what he'd left behind.

Self-protection, -preservation, that's it.

His mind was in charge at the moment,

And rightly so.  He was in no condition

To take the reigns.  If ever.

This guy needed someone to show up,

And he tried to seek out, in the space

He sensed surrounded him,  some signs

Of life, anywhere in this new universe.

Whatever form he took, he had no ears.

He'd recognized no sounds since 

The day of his arrival.  He'd seen no one.

But he still believed that he was not alone.

He could go on, feeling something was coming

For hours on end, and it would be worth it,

Whatever it was that he would discover

In this undiscovered country. 

This was definitely a place of no return;

But he knew that, had known it, somehow

All of this time he'd been there.

Things were not going to change soon.

But until then, what was that?  Pulling at

The corners of his mind?  Was it a memory?

He could almost see human faces coming

Into focus--blurred visages of important people.

But who were they?  And why weren't they here?

Why was he alone?  Why was there no music?

Music--he remembered!  But how?  And why?

He'd loved music, he knew that now.

Dancing.  He'd met her, a lovely girl,

Now just a blur in his thoughts.

But there was something that had happened

With this girl--but what?  Who was she?

He thought he heard a voice somewhere,

The rhythm of sound reminded him of--

Prayer. It wasn't her, though.  Not the girl.

But others.  Other voices he should have known.

Tired of the awareness, the half-memories,

The trek to the edge of memory, this

Poor boy shut out it all, all senses,

And pled for mercy and peace and quiet.

There was no response.

Awaking in the Nether Lands: A Story of a Poor Boy

Poor boy didn't realize his last day on earth

Would be in his thirty-fifth year, 

On an unremarkable day in October.

On his lunchbreak.  What a travesty.

Poor boy didn't get a chance to reflect

On his life--in full or in part--

Because his life was extinguished 

In a matter of seconds.

At least that's what the doctor reported.

Camera crews shot footage of the last

Place he was known to have taken a breath,

The slick suited and silver tongued journalists

Made his departure seem very dramatic and all.

Two onlookers were quoted in the local paper

As saying that they witnessed the horrific moment

And it was frightening, tragic, and clearly,

In their minds, he was gone on impact.

At least that's what's the townspeople said.

 

When his family, and then friends, were notified

About his passing, they took it hard, as any

Decent family or friend would--with tears.

They were both heart-broken and dumbstruck.

This poor boy would leave behind a family

Of his own, a family he did not have a chance

To bid adieu--this perhaps the greatest tragedy--

With daughters 8 and 4 and 2.  There were no sons...yet.

At least that was what the family told us.

No sons and a no real job--last year he'd

Been "downsized" when his employers

Required a degree he had not yet achieved.

This year he'd been slaving for the minimum.

What his family would do after his passing,

No one could be quite certain,

Though some were already talking

About her old high school boyfriend.

At least that was the talk around town.

His children cried themselves to sleep,

Clinging to one another with tight grip

And worried, hushed whispers.

These kids were concocting a plan of sorts.

"What are we to do?  What would dad want?"

Futilely, they attempted to find some solace

In doing what they could to please their father,

Believing in their hearts he would be watching them.

At least that was what the shrink said.

But no one ever dared to venture a guess

As to what happened to this poor boy--

Whether he had been laid to an eternal rest

Or awakened elsewhere in a vivid dreamstate.

Morality aside--he was as decent and hard-working,

As they come--this poor boy deserved some sort

Of a break from it all. Surely he was dancing in

Fields of Rainbows, somewhere, where Skittles rained down.

At least that's what his girls said.

We can certainly hope, though never know,

Where and when and how he is,

Whether he is aware or entombed somewhere

Unable to think or do or be...

So, then, we are left to wonder if he knows

Or sees what's happening to those he left behind:

What does he think?  What would he say, and

And how would he say it, given the opportunity?  

At least we can wonder what he would say. 

It's Nearly Three A.M.

It's three in the morning 

And this girl is wide awake

With a sinus allergy problem

That won't go away.

It's three o'clock in the morning

And I am no sleepier than I was

Two hours ago, when I crawled 

Into the bed with all intentions

Of sleeping.

But sleep is long in coming.

I cough and sneeze and cough

Some more, but my eyelids

Are not drooping...In the least.

I am tired:  It is three and I 

Have been up all day, working;

My tired feet would like to 

Call it a day--but they aren't allowed.

Aching feet.

I am thinking about tomorrow--

What if I'm up all night?

Is there something I should do?

Some project to tackle?

Wasting precious time and energy

Is never my intention--So what

Should I do while I am awake?

Write senseless poetry?

Mind numbness.

I've done all I know to do:

I've checked the news, online sales,

Even Googled "How to Start a Business"--

Just in case I get inspired to.

I've played my game,  logged on

To all of my social media sites

And scrolled senselessly in the hope

That my eyes would get heavy.

Wide awake.

So I'll write.

Pardon me while I write.

Whatever, Anything, Something:

Getting it on the page.  Because.

At least I'm putting my energy

To work--maybe, in a few days,

Some of this will miraculously

Make sense, echo profundity.

Probably not.

Notice about My Posts

NOTICE ABOUT MY POSTS:

Lest anyone read my posts (especially those made recently, especially yesterday) and misunderstand what is "going on with me," I wanted to make a very important disclaimer about my writings stored here on "A Happy Psalm or Two."

For all of my life, I have written as a means of relieving stress, frustration, and creative energy.  I often feel a NEED to write pieces which incorporate not only my own stories, but the stories of others I know--including things I've read in news headlines and articles inter/nationally and on social media posts.

I have a NEED to write poetry and prose that matters, poetry and prose with which people can relate, poetry and prose that gives someone solace knowing they are not alone in life.  

My inspiration comes from everywhere, and just because a post seems like I may be talking about my own life experience, it doesn't mean that I am.  I often use real-life as a starting context and then allow my imagination to fill in the rest.  As one learns when studying literature, the author's voice is not necessarily the narrator's.  The same is true of my narrators.   Most, I would think,are, in fact, me; others are not.   At other times, too, much of what I write is a blend of fact and fiction, or FACTION, as some refer to it.

Many of my posts, if not most of them, ARE about my own life, no fiction included.  But others? Perhaps inspired by real life--but not necessarily my own.

The challenge with my writing is that it is not always obvious which is fact and which is fiction.  It is up to the reader to make those suppositions.  

I cannot say.  :)

How Powerful a Memory

How powerful, a memory.

How plaguing one can be.

If only I could rid myself 

Of the dark shadows lingering.

Eradicate this memory, Lord,

I would assume that would

Please You--So I can move on

With my life and live it, joyfully.

Shine a light, Lord, in the dark

Recesses of my heart--

Repair and restore the broken

Places I cannot reach.

You know I am lonely, Lord,

Every thought, ever doubt, 

I thought I'd contained the

Darkness; apparently not.

How powerful a memory,

I give them all to You

To do with as You wish--

Vengeance is Yours, after all.