And So the Days Go
By
The days go by
like rows of
unfamiliar houses
seen from the
window of a
Greyhound bus
at night.
I lean my head
against the glass
as the houses
parade their
home-made stories
amidst the windswept
particles of a
sideways snow.
It seems
to me that
the houses
are like days
that have built
themselves,
and each day
is a room
only to be
lived in once.
The darkness
projects my reflection
on the window;
is this how
the world
holds up
its mirror?
My forehead,
pressed to
the glass like
a conjoined twin,
the other half
of a Rorschach
springing from
my skull.
Too bad
the lit windows
of the passing
houses fail to
welcome me
home,
their inhabitants
inevitably mistaking
my tenderness
for weakness
as they
did when
I was a kid.
At night
on unfamiliar streets,
who of us
belongs anywhere
but within
the confines of
our minds?
As the bus
whisks me
past the spoils
of other lives,
a darkened
suburbia seems
inhospitable to
my open heart.
Maybe because
my art
stems from
a wound,
my desires
remain un-afflicted,
refusing to be
baited by
outside forces,
even the ones
I feign
fitfully to comply.
Is this how
I leave
my youth
behind?
And so
the days go by
with their
unused light,
each person
a temporary relative
on the set
of another
play.
This is
sure to end
in goodbye.
Maybe that’s why
the days go by
in the length
a man goes to
find solace,
like the breath
of a clock
between one digit
and the next,
like a sin
of the self
that leaves
no trace,
like the acceptance
of a sadness
that supersedes
its cause,
like the yearning
to make art
from one’s
greatest regret.
Why then hide
this stain
beneath
our clothes?
And so the days go by
like rows of
familiar houses
seen from the
window of a
Greyhound bus
at night.
12/14/22
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1 comment:
Hey, Peter! Again, I love your new poem, “The Days Go By”! The metaphors are astounding! The passage of time analogies that you presented for any given day cover a wide spectrum of experiences and choices pointing to the human experience since Creation. Universal notations. The bus, like life, trods along the road, daily, as we do, willingly, or, not. In the midst of it all, we pass through the unfamiliar days, exploring the many mysteries, which, like the houses, are a composition of varied shapes, sounds, colors, smells and emotions, presenting the reality of not knowing what will transpire, or, how we will react at any given time, as we are introduced to uncharted frontiers. Like the houses, some days are more inviting and more hospitable than others. Each house can only be lived in once, just like a day, or, better yet, a precious moment. Cherish each day and moment to the fullest. As time goes by, the days and events, like the houses, have a potential to become familiar rather than, unfamiliar, which, has the ability to beckon a more predictable and perhaps somewhat mundane state of existence, which, when examined more closely, may not have mass appeal, as it conflicts with the innate and deep desire to experience life’s mysteries and adventures, regardless of the degree of familiarity with a set of circumstances. If the aforementioned is a desire, then, the beautiful wonder and wide eyed innocent of the child within must be permitted to live, thrive and prevail, allowing each individual to continuously, see, feel, and explore the newness that embodies and surrounds each day and moment within this vast Universe we know as home. Therefore, when we look out the window, we choose what we see, as, it comes from within. Peter, I love this poem with its depth, rhythm and the many profound messages that it presents, like the deep and winding roots of a great and sturdy oak! Peter, thank you for sharing your wonderful gifts and keep writing! BRAVO! ✍️👏🎄
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