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.