Though lovers be lost, love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion
.”
―Dylan Thomas

Moving towards death,
he abandoned love
like a single glove.

Once there had been
time for everything.
Lust and desire,
two types of fire.

Women, lovers, Muses,
he opened like an explorer,
not only their lithe legs
but the wild generosity
of their willing spirits.

He wanted to cherish them.
He wanted to please them.
He could not stay with them.

Time passed. He moved on.

Lost loves are
never truly gone.
If they were happy,
they remain so.

The life of the flesh holds
the life of the soul.

We give ourselves
to make us whole.

Pleasure is in the making,
not in the taking.

She sits on the rocks
in a demure bikini,
smiling up at me
from half a century ago.

Her smile says: it is
good to be 19, the whole
future an endless vista,
and the ferocious vigor
that makes up first love.

A sudden epiphany.

I am transported back
to that sliver of time.

A lifetime evaporates.

Not memory, but real Being.

I feel everything that was,
as if I am right there again
and no time has passed.

Aphrodite’s Smile knows
nothing of time. It is
eternal; spans centuries;
open to any willing heart.

Time is just a lie
we tell ourselves.

Beauty and Love
can never die.

— — — -

This poem is connected with a story I wrote. Read it at: https://bookgardener.medium.com/the-girl-who-knocked-a-drama-bbc89d3c4218

Death dropped by last night. I never expect him, but he was lonely and I was available.

What’s up, I asked.

Same old shit, he said. You have no idea how hard this job is. Absolutely no one wants to see me. Ever.

Must be lonely.

Lonely, he said, you…

History rarely repeats itself in the details, but sometimes events are amazingly parallel. Such is the case with the debacle currently ending in Afghanistan.

In 1955, we began to equip and train an army (and even an air force) to defend itself against “communist aggression.” Because our “poor little ally”…

An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
… WBY

As life winds down, I must
search for the missing key
that turns the lock to tomorrow
and reveals what to do
as the clock runs out.

I have checked off all
the traditional boxes.

Now I must be inventive
or slide into lonely despair.

Hopelessness is a terminal disease.

Succumb to it and I am done,
left waiting around to die.

Where can that magical key be?

Only effort can show me a way
to live on with dignity,
to remain vital, awake, and free.

Mike Essig

Honorary Schizophrenic. Recent refugee. Displaced person. Old white male. Confidant of cassowaries.

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