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: 
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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