Undated Memories of an Old Journal

 

Wrinkled edges and dog-eared pages,

Smudges from the swift stroke of a careless hand ―

Crispy remnants of a poem spaghetti-stained

Saliva drops from years of cackling laughter

Thoughts overflowing from mindful clutter

Trapped in the diffidence of a person so tiny;

These are the stories of a journal I hold dearly.

 

Bright lights flashing through the auditorium,

Colorful, cacophonous, crowds waving their ―

State flags with pomp and prideful tear;

I sit beneath the stage in shadows of regret,

Knowing this ― this moment I’ll never forget,

Staring up, up, towards a podium I’d stand ―

If only upon the target my last shot would land;

The glittering gold medal upon his neck is all I see ―

And towards it my humbled eyes gaze respectfully;

These are the stories of a journal I hold dearly.

 

One middle-aged man and a woman sit in front ―

A friendship oblivious to my passive presence behind;

Lost in a silence filled with the special kind

Of age-old stories and jokes-never-told ― and nostalgia

Impervious to blaring honks of infuriated China ―  

Crawling through the expressway at thirty an hour;

The woman turns to him and helplessly hopes for another

Day to spend with each other ―  then the sun falls down,

Into misty mountains’ layered nightgown,

Frozen for a moment in unforgiving waves of time ―

And signaling the end with its bittersweet shine

Like final pedals closing on an old pond lily;

These are the stories of a journal I hold dearly.

 

Through the roughened pages I patiently flip:

Poems tumbling off pale purple lines,

Struggling against the notebook’s fragile spine;

I can’t remember the first time I ever wrote ―

Or when-or-how-or-why-or-what-about;

Atop each page lacks a date; only ―

Words scribbled in permanent purity ―

So when I read again the words will sink,

Melodiously deep down to make me think

That-that pain-joy-and-feelings-in-between

Are forever a part of me too deep to be seen ―

Not merely that it happened in twenty-thirteen.

 

I write no dates so they don’t decompose as history ―

Rather, let them stay for eternity

The most intensely personal shades of me;

 

These are the stories of a journal I hold dearly.  

  

This poem is about: 
Me
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

Comments

Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.
 

 

If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741