Friday, April 05, 2013

The Notebook

Opening an old notebook,
Ink stained and brown,
I found a note from myself
Like a private code
Barely readable,
Sounding like a stranger
Who once used my name.

Philosophy says “I think
I was, So therefore
I must have been.”
Nearly forty years ago,
In student days with
With a bearded frown,
For only the young can
Waste so much time
In a studied state
Of seriousness.

I spent a lot of time
Jotting down quotes.
So many pages of
Thoughts profound.
Now they all
Sound like postcards
From a clown.

The past so often
Stays elusive.
It's like bumping into
A forgotten mate
Who knows your name.
They speak in such familiar
Tones of days you find
Best forgotten and you
Quietly wait until they leave,
Seeking inspiration from
Their absence.

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