Words, phrases, scraps of drawings
all gathering much like dust, within a journal
Sometimes these are chocolate rum cherries
except steeped in near tears:

                 "Daddy do you remember us well when you leave?"

These motes are photographs, memories, thoughts
of humanity
of moments...  
Such as joyful holiday songs mixing with grief of death

                 At times you have to hold onto sorrow
                                  as if it was the only thing
                 At times you have to release song
                                  as it becomes all you are

Each phrase snatches, runs, moves briefly, blinks and then
another passage of life is over,
Yet they are surprisingly complete
                
1) A snapshot of journal art
                 
                                    Pastels, old, old pastels
                 Rubbed over the years by fingers against these pages
                    What art has rubbed back on me over the years?
                 
                 
2) A snapshot of passion, writing poems on my lover

                 Words shared onto each other
                 Words are the binding
                          are the power
                          Words traced on paper
                          burn, turn to ash
                          Words traced onto each other
                          warm and turning out to last
                          as a marriage
                          this binding not to paper
                          but onto and into each other, written upon our souls
                          which is true love
                          
                 
3) A snapshot pondering a church sermon
                 
                 Stain glass bleeds light down, down as
                 blurred colors brushed against gray pillars to heaven
                 which is the path?
                 one to the altar
                 or
                 one back up within rays of light
                 while candle flames lift to the sky
                 blessings as landing pads to saints
                 coming back down to those tied to earth
                 The smell of mothballs comes forth from opening of a holy book
                 like my mother's Greek orthodox mother's linen closet
                 Yet now issuing out from the church altar
                 How many souls flew too high
                 To be fumigated back down by vapors in these spoken words?
                 
                 
4) Thoughts on our nature
                 
                 Some people are of the past
                                  Ask and drink deeply of this history
                 Some people are the present
                                  We live in the moment with them to be alive
                 Some people are the future
                                  Children asking questions so they may become more
                                  
                 
These words gather and after my time, too will fade
Yet at least: This dust shouts back to me, of who I am, of what I thought.

                 "Daddy do you remember us well when you leave?"

"yes", "always and forever" is the answer

as these words,
as these pages always ever remind  
of what has truly touched my life.