Our concrete maladies, edifices of misery, rise from foundations of trauma.
Our masonic rituals pile rock upon rock through habit learned of our fathers.
Some cry, “tear it down,” as though absence of sorrow is what we seek.
Others landscape parks amid towers, flowers amid caves, and weave beauty.
I wish nothing more than to apprentice in the dirt.
You were out of my league.
I was out of your league.
After decades of play
We’re in a league of our own.
And since
You neither keep
Nor settle scores,
I know I won.
Knowing the secret to
Enlightenment is detachment,
I joyfully condemn
All my future lives
To Buddhist hells
So I may cling to
This life of union
With you.
We are not destined to be together.
We are not lovers foretold in song.
No word of gods proclaim our union.
No golden chariots parade
Our perfect marriage across the heavens.
No promise of music ordains our kisses.
No cameras zoom to capture
Our love for iconic posters.
There is no guarantee this all works out;
No security proffered by future time.
All on offer is the prospect of work.
Of my commitment to bear the yoke.
Of your steady hand to guide the share.
As we till the ground with backbreaking labor
To plant love amongst the dirt of our lives
Until the day we die when they will say…
We were destined to be together.
Our love was foretold in song.
For the gods blessed our union
And placed our souls
Upon a shooting star.
So frenzied maestros, with our kisses as muse,
Could compose ballads
To bring hope to the world.
And of course it all worked out.
For no love was ever more certain than ours.
Take the good when it comes.
Take the bad when it comes.
Take it easy,
But take it.
Don’t give as good as you get —
Give the good that you get;
Take the bad that you get
And breathe as you let go.
A. B. Clarke 