Yardbirds

"The essence of childhood, of course, is play, which my friends and I did endlessly on streets that we reluctantly shared with traffic.” Bill Cosby

the Upstream swim

In your wildest years long before
Your Fall.
You had a friend who knew you well.
She, your chosen confidante,
One to whom You would seek leave to disclose
And without a will to disenchant,
Hope to God she'd like your prose.


Schooled by life's chances,
Together you took them well.
Upon her bestowed you clearance
Of all there was to tell.
Perhaps when first love failed,
Perhaps when sights were blurred,
And wth a single handful of Providence,
Twas your friend who truly heard.

My dear friend and I,
Made a blithe and lively team,
Our larks were filled with tricks and smirks,
Good we were,
best was just a dream.


And I, like salmon in the waters,
Slippery and cold as death,
Writhe the brawny Muscles in my fish-tail,
And take to Swimming briskly upstream.

why didn't you write me?

In times of sorrow and tears, I find myself with more time to be alone, and sit, like I am doing now, to write down how I feel. I feel it is better to write, because words are silent and you can think about them before saying them. These words are private and dearly bought. I have felt a strange sensation in my chest for the last twenty-four hours. It's a hollow feeling.
"It hurts here," I say, pressing my hand to my chest.
"It's your heart. It is hurt, but it will heal. Believe me, it will heal."

Still, I will not forget you. You touched my heart, which I then gave to you. I've cared for you. You've been my friend. I am broken because I have not said a good goodbye.

I do not see much light ahead, but then, strangely, I think of God. I don't often think of Him but in instances of grief and madness and pain we seek for divine help, because our human fellows just cannot suffice. I feel I need a prayer, to watch over me in the sudden vast and empty place.

He was a good boy, but my daddy is a better man.
He was just a boy, not grown up or ready. I was in it, but he was out.

One Art

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intentto be lost that their loss is no disaster,
Lose something every day.
Accept the flusterof lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.I lost my mother's watch.
And look! my last, ornext-to-last, of three beloved houses went.The art of losing isn't hard to master.I lost two cities, lovely ones.
And, vaster,some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.-- Even losing you (the joking voice, a gestureI love)
I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) a disaster.

Elizabeth Bishop