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.



Personal Photo

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:




What’s up Doc?

When you are living
your normal boring life,
you don’t seem to notice
how the time flies by.

While awaiting a diagnosis,
amazing how it slows.

Even your threatened
breath moderates.
Light days grow darker.
It takes longer to go
and longer to get back.
Each morning a surprise.
The calendar stutters
and forgets to advance,
but clocks circle faster.

You want to know and
you don’t want to know.

You wait for a verdict,
hope for a short sentence
from an empathetic judge,
knowing that even if
you get lucky this time,
it is only a reprieve,
at best a few more years.

Merciless, indifferent,
the future catches up and

ready or not,

it is your turn to leave.




Tempus destruit spes nostras.

Become an archeologist.
Master Greek and Latin.
Build my own cabin.
Apologize to all those
I’ve loved and harmed.
Read all the books. All.
Win the Cross-fit games.
Figure out what women want
and whisper the secret
to Freud in his grave
so he can finally get some rest.
Learn to juggle. Really.
Write just one, perfect poem.
Forget that unwelcome war,
at least the bad parts.
Be stalked by a cassowary.
Converse with an Alien.
Ever make it to India.
Hug my unborn grand-children.
Defile Richard Nixon’s grave.
Travel to outer space and
manage to get home again.
Waltz with a Duchess in Vienna.
Achieve Satori, then lose it.

That miserly bastard time seems
so very stingy with our dreams.



Nanette Cherry

praeteritum est praesens

The scars of a lifetime describe
the essence of whom we have been.

Life devolves to what is lost.

Eschew slogans; admit the inevitable.
Time does not read self-help books,
nor care about your positive thinking.

And 70 is not the new 35.

Ghostly images crowd your head,
reduced to evocative reminders:
faded shades: lovers, people,
homes, places, things you owned,
impalpable but in recollection.

Present becomes memory.
A now shot full of holes
into which what was has
fallen away for good and
what isn’t overwhelms what is.

We live in the past pretending
that we live towards the future.

Lost boats beating against the wind.



Mike Essig

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