Whither Thou Goeth


Albert Handell Lookout Point - Pastel

Albert Handell – Lookout Point / Pastel

Whither Thou Goeth

Life, naughty life, thou sneeketh up on me. Thou bendeth
thy irresistible crooked finger and beckoneth me onward.

Thou maketh me to forget to wash my face
until my crusted eyes forget to see where my feet troddeth.

Thou stoppereth my ears until the birds sing silently through days
and the toads roam through my nights without croaking.

Thou forgeteth to have me remember to turn out the lights
and the oven and the faucet and the sound of my heart beating,
so that they burn brightly to spilleth out over the shadow of my days,
burneth the roast until it’s crispy, flood over the floor of the life
left to me, left with a dirty sink and stoppered-up with bloody veins.

Thou maketh me old when it’s wise I prefer to be.
Thou maketh me silly when I would have chosen carefree.

Thou maketh me forget everything save worries without end
and sorrows that come to stay like beggars with nowhere else to go.

Derelict, they burrow in, snuggle down but never sleep.
Famished, they eat me from the inside out.

Who knew that Forgetful would move in, take the stage and insist
on being cast as Worry, the starring role in the farewell performance?

Who knew, in the opening act, that the play would be at least
as tragic as comic, and that the finger that beckoneth was deadly serious?

M L S Baisch © 2017

Work: What’s Left Behind When Life Has Moved On

Giant Springs

Giant Springs

“I always used to work hard. But I had no idea what hard work was until something changed in my mind… I don’t really know what it was. Maybe some sense that this whole enterprise is limited, that there was an end in sight… That you were really truly mortal.” Leonard Cohen

Photo: Taken at Giant Springs out of Great Falls Montana. Why this photo paired with this Cohen quotation? There’s something about running water that is analogous to life. It has a source and it flows on until, eventually, it merges into something more than itself–or, sometimes, it simply disappears somewhere: either way, running water is a moving force. Where you find it, it seems to have a place. The place remains but the water moves on. Lives, too, move on: some leave remnants–places, things, thoughts, memories–that can be returned to, others simply disappear without a trace.

M L S Baisch © 2016