Life is a journey, not a destination;
For years I wondered after yours when it no longer mattered

I thought you ruined my life, but that was unfair
We were both wanderers out of place and
Time, and the years have helped me see
I owned most of what I am

It wasn’t your fault I followed and danced to
Her music after it stopped being played

She became my quiet obsession
And you, the agent of its necessity
When ruing the ruins, as I did from time to time
I needed a villain and you were there

But age and a reflective soul brought me to many lights
I had never seen burning before; one of them was yours.
I see you got back to where
You came from, and should never have left
But if you had stayed rooted
I think my life would have turned into
Plain vanilla, and these poems would have
Never been born

You never liked my city; so be it;
It is an acquired taste and I myself
Lost it at times. But your daughter found
Diamonds in its rain and I’ve always wondered
If she ever made an attempt to live
Again in Oz

*

You died on a Sunday in January. Someone put your life on You-
Tube, with the blemish of the first marriage airbrushed away
But in the montage of your life I saw the son who died
And the daughter too
And though it had been decades since I’d seen them both
The dagger of grief cut hard

Looking at the montage,
It is evident you found peace in your golden years
There was only one time seeing it
That my breathing stopped:
When I saw her sitting on the arm of your chair

Your obituary said she was still alive
And now I know where
The strange thing is, it all made me realize
How much of my life
Was spent half-steeped in purgatory.

I finally came to see
My demons were mine; her will was hers;
I found her and it was all I wanted to do

And as you finally rest, sir, know this:
There’ ll be no ghosts knocking at her door

02/20/2010

Author's Note: For Nelson S. Reichard: RIP, sir.

Posted on 02/20/2010
Copyright © 2025 Ken Harnisch