The Burden of Being

Carol Staub

Carol Staub

The memory is but history
recorded by the unreliable eye
a paper reel on the Viewmaster
a box of old 8 track tapes

The imagination is but fancy
scripted by undisciplined hands
a catalogue of odd irrationality
a symphony for a harmonica

The tragedy of the present
lies mainly in its unsustainability
a candle with a flickering flame
a loon on a lake at nightfall

This is the burden of being
a delicate shore eroding in time
a mirage fading out on the sand
a plum tree without blossom

“Where you come from is gone,
where you thought you were going to never was there,
and where you are is no good unless you can get away from it.”

~ Flannery O’Connor


About Peter Notehelfer

I'm a retired people person who now finds the time to watch the little details of the world without worrying about being watched by anyone . . . I live on an Island north of Seattle with my wife named Ellen, a yellow dog named McGee, a yellow cat named Gatzby, and four fine chickens . . . I read fiction, bake bread, smoke salmon, and fish whenever the weather allows . . . Oh, and yes, I try to write a poem every day simply to avoid senility!
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