Poem of an Amnesiac
"My words are forgotten."
One word.
"Forget."
The forgettings of my words.
"Forget?"
My forgettings in words.
"What to say?"
They spring forth, gather, blur.
They tangle, get lost, find themselves.
They stray, fade, become troubled, as if sucked into a hole, an abyss.
They pile up, amass, fade away, like a story without a source, without a trace.
Do they exist or not? A mirage or a hope?
My forgettings in words.
What to say? In words?
Mirage of a true falsehood.
I ask the Lord, in a deep conversation one day,
where the place was, He threw our sins away?
The answer to this question, I just had to know,
all the things that held me down, that’s where they needed to go.
To remember them no more, to cast off their weight,
there was no time, for me to hesitate.
All the hurt, and and the darkness that was hidden inside,
I knew with me, no longer, it could abide.
All the memories that came back, from a darkened past,
in the sea of forgetfulness, I knew they wouldn’t last.
From the love, of my Father, He said to me,
at the foot of the the cross, lay the sea.
For it is the blood of Jesus, that ran that day,
still flowing, washing your old nature away.
Remain in Him, and be your part, you see,
that sea of forgetfulness, is always open, for you and me!
Oh dear! Oh dear! What is this?
Something seems to be amiss
Before so sure was I
But now am left to wonder why
For what compelled my short sojourn
Has left me now in but a turn
For in the span from there to here
All thought for naught has disappeared
What I don’t display,
Is good that you don’t see.
The music moves as you play,
Spirals and fades away from thee.
The weeping willow tree,
Smiling before me.
Que sera, sera.
You can only see my every flaw.
Like those from our previous lives,
We march unto an ungodly death.
Not knowing for what we thrive,
With our cold and shallow breath.
Up the snowy mountains depth,
Dusty grounds the wind hath swept.
To the nest, the mother bird returns,
Only to discover that her eggs were burned.
No tree remains,
Because she only wanted more.
Let us sing woe, not praise,
For this has happened before.
Is a swelling crescendo in the score,
Truly what we are searching for?
A piece of information,
Used to make a whole new creation?
These Sunlit Signs,
Are leading us to the right story.
Read between the lines,
The empty void of purgatory,
The telltales of your own glory.
Just stop and listen for me,
To understand the meaning of you and I.
There may be signs reading,”The end is nigh”.
I have lost my spectacles
I can't read or write without them
I search my table, drawers, bed and selves
I am totally helpless and at a loss without them.
Oh! I might forget what I need to write
If I don't find them quickly enough
Suddenly I notice myself in the mirror
There they're perched on my head!
I seem to have left my thoughts somewhere in oblivion
Her body was that of a wizened crone,
her enfeebled mind was that of a child.
Playfully, she skipped and jumped rope, and shone,
but only in her confused dreams of wild.
Her drear some days softened by her tone,
she mumbled of lost love, and her eyes smiled.
Time and age had drained her of consciousness,
stealing the current surroundings from her
and replacing them with the obtuseness
known only by those who soon become her.
She sits and thinks with laboriousness
until she succumbs and the drugs numb her.
Forgetfulness is my new friend;
its frequent visits- I defend.
Quite unannounced, it comes and goes
to steer my mind into repose.
Although annoying- I must say
it makes me laugh in my dismay
of losing track of simple things
that fly away as if on wings.
A friend, I call it- since I know
it's part of aging and will show-
when brains are filled right to the top-
untangling thoughts come to a stop.
So when I'm frustrated that day
as it comes by and plans to stay-
I just relax and stay resigned,
and before long, my thoughts unwind.
But all in all, so far I'm blessed-
speak of forgetfulness in jest.
I'll keep on aging- best I can
to make the most of my life's plan.
Was I maudlin over our breakup? For a minute.
If I think of you now, it’s like a slideshow of unflattering images.
At the time, my breakup buddies reminded me you were a bad
choice - like a brand of deodorant that gave me a rash or fashionable shoes that chafed, even after they were stretched.
“Ruca,” my girlfriends would say, “you’re shootin-terrible, they’re a million pork-swords in the sea.”
Finally, I pulled the trigger - double-tapped us.
At first, reminders of you, those siren whispers of nostalgia, were everywhere - like the moon - which, I just had to live with.
You passed from memory though, that’s how memory works. Events fade, like last week’s chemistry test, or yesterday’s lunch.
Now, if someone asks me, “Hey, remember, what’s his name, your big love from high school?”
I say “Nope.”
I chose to laugh, dance - and shoot birds at the moon.
.
.
Slang:
breakup buddies = friends who help you get over a breakup
ruca = girlfriend
shootin terrible = on a losing streak, not doing well, making bad choices
pork-swords = come on, think about it - it’s funny.
Forgetfulness is not one of my better traits
Never the result of any foregone conclusion,
I could blame it on the narrow-minded fates
Or other faults my mind harbors in profusion.
Of all those ills, none causes me such anxiety
As forgetting a most important appointment,
And I try to make all those occasions a rarity
Since they always produce a disappointment
And, sometimes a missed appointment fee!
Written August 25, 2025
Blessed is the gift of forgetfulness
Each generation shall surely refresh
With hoary optimism springing afresh
To chart again culture’s steady regress.
Silence accepts, absent solid discourse,
While eyes cower bitterly in remorse,
Birthing fearful looks of doubt scanning round
For a champion to argue high ground.
Tyranny offers only lies and force
To forge an iron path for culture’s course.
Liberty brings a lovely, lonesome light
That tyranny labors to snuff to night.
Blessed is the gift of forgetfulness
So, tyranny may shackle with darkness.
Forgetfulness is more than a habit with me
I work hard at it, trying not to remember
[or use up my limited memory]
on facts I can Google!
written June 11, 2021
Dive deep into my thoughts
And tell me what you’ll unravel.
Have you lost your way in your search
Or got tangled in a tight web?
“The mess is my fault, I know,
I’ve been there.”
You see, the seeds that I’ve sowed,
Oh, how they have sprawled - relentlessly.
Beyond the control of mind,
From where they were conceived.
“To be lost in in your own thoughts,
Is to be absorbed in preoccupation.”
For too long your feet
alter to a bloody mess.
Tired of having one
gory pulp inside your shoes,
you yearn to have a
little of forgetfulness.
Since for real stopping
isn't feasible ever.
Go to where all the pictures
are greasy, and get some peace.
Am I so old I cannot remember?
It was on the stairs, sometime in December.
My memory was in such a state,
that I found myself in deep debate
whilst climbing the stairs to fetch something down,
then couldn’t remember. I felt such a clown!
I descended because I forgot,
only I blurt out ‘Oh I remember what
the thing was which I tried to retrieve,’
of course, by then you just wouldn’t believe
(at the top of the stairs, which does make me peeve)
I’d forgotten again - it’s an endless task,
as myself on the stairs, I continue to ask.
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