https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber
Today's poem appeared on the blog some time ago.
Our ghosts are a living part of us whether we care to
acknowledge them or not; kind and less kind ghosts, where the former invariably
more than compensate for the latter, lifting us when we are low,
restoring a sense of purpose should we lose sight of it from time to time;
these are more than memories of better times, they are the people who helped
make them better, kinder, happier ... and they are no less real than ever,
albeit invisible. As I grow old, especially living alone as I do, my ghosts are
as real to me as flesh and blood friends; life forces, encouraging and
sustaining me through these tough times of Covid-19.
Whatever our ethnicity, creed, sexuality... we are
all but human; it is in our nature to be wary if not fearful of death. Religion
may well offer a safety net of sorts, but it has always struck me as causing
more worldwide divisions that it can ever begin to heal; neither, though, do I
subscribe to negative thinking.
Whoever, wherever we are, there is a temptation,
especially as we grow old, to look back on our lives if only because there
seems more to look back on than look forward to. Not so, though, as who knows
that tomorrow will bring? We always need to think positively about that however
hard life gets sometimes as body fails to keep sync with heart. There is a
further temptation to dwell on our mistakes, bad choices, missed opportunities;
we all make them. The result of such negative reflection is that we may well
lose sight of all the positives… many of which we may not even be aware. Time,
then (if not already) to let mind-body-spirit teach us how to look to see,
hear to listen.
Some years ago, I visited an old school friend who
confided that he was gay, and I was the first person whom he had told. He was
ill and had only a few years to live although neither of us had an inkling of
this at the time. What bothered him most was that he saw his life as nothing
more or less than a string of missed opportunities. “It’s all been such a waste
of time,” he groaned, “my whole life,”
My friend had chosen a career in teaching. I visited him
on his 65th birthday, and he let me browse his cards, many from ex-pupils whom
he had clearly given cause to remember him fondly, One card included the photo
of a young man, his wife and three children, and he had written: ‘You were
right. Trust your instincts, and you can do anything you put your mind to,
however much other people try to tell you it’s in your best interests to do
something else.’ It seems he had joined the police, and made his way well up
the promotion ladder against the advice of family, friends and several teachers
who had seen a promising career for him as, yes, - a teacher. There were
similar comments on other cards from ex-pupils whom he had plainly influenced
for the better and they were clearly grateful. I suspect he will play an
important if unknowing part in their consciousness for years to come.
A waste of a life, indeed…! I think not, and hope I
managed to convince him of that as he died a week later so I never saw him
again.
Much of what we achieve in this life, we never get to see
through to the end. if we are aware of it at all. A word here, a word there, to
the right person at the right time can make the world of difference between
their doing well instead of badly… and the chances are, we will never know.
YOU-ME-US, A POSTHUMOUS CONSCIOUSNESS or REMEMBRANCE, A GUIDING LIGHT
I grow old alone,
those who may have grieved me
gone into that unknown
some call Heaven, Paradise,
Hell or whatever, anything other
than Death
Death, a cruel word,
metaphor for a ghost, last spotted
peering over the shoulder,
such as observes in my mirror
how desperate I've become to get
some sleep
Sleep, harbinger
of dreams, good, bad or too ugly
to ever contemplate
wherever alphabet lanterns
over my head insist on spelling out
my darkness
Darkness, companion
to personal space if sure to keep
a (very) discreet distance,
since it would not do to imply
so much as a tenuous connection
with its devils
Devils, such secrets,
running rings around me, less able
let gather dust as once
I would, mind-body-spirit loath
to invoke heated family discussions
with repercussions...
Repercussions, haunts
of bygone days, years of answering
to outward appearances,
inner self all but suffocating
in a closet I let few in, among whom
no one to love
Love, always so near
yet so far, on the tip of my tongue,
but at the last minute
struck dumb by stereotypes
forcing public opinion down my throat,
all but choking me
Ah, but what’s that I hear?
voices out of nowhere reminding me
of words said, soon forgot,
(and to whom) now thanking me
for helping them turn corners, find hope
get a life...
Alone, yes, but lonely no more;
invisible hands warmly shaking mine,
re-awakening sensibilities
half-forgotten, repudiating despair
of a life with little to show for it, nothing
much to tell
Ah, but we all have tales to tell,
how life marries us, for better or worse,
successes and failures,
loves lost and won, dreams come true
and others left to cry ourselves to sleep over,
come a new dawn
Dawn, spreading its light over me,
feeding me such hopes as I hadn't dared,
reassuring me of 'live' ghosts
always on hand to advise me on making
wiser, kinder choices, urging I but listen out
for You-Me-Us
Copyright R. N. Taber 2020
[Note: This post-poem also appears on my general poetry
blog today.]
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