Seeker Magazine

Three Poems

by Ronald L. Haun

THE BOOK

She bought me a book,
a book so fragile it reminded me of my heart.
It was an old, first edition book of poetry,
gray, with frayed pages, the title difficult to decipher
by a poet no one had ever hear of.
But his poetry was of love and of that we'd all heard.

THE ILLUSION OF LIMITLESS TIME
This is not a good-bye to friends
but to the necessary illusion of limitless time.

Upon the prospect of returning to work
after five weeks at my very, very peak,
I am not at all ready to again surrender
to the whoremaster my precious time,
this too rapidly shrinking time of my life.

I am not ready, but neither am I horrified.
One must, after all, pay to be free.
And have not I always been the one say,
"money buys time, your time and mine?"

With a little help from lovers and friends
during this sabbatical, this child's time out,
my focus has been honed and refined.
I have learned to keep and release--

Often just this, that and the other thing had to go.
Old Wit had seen his better day;
Out he went, along with Defied Lust--
such incredible wasters of time.
And Manhood, the killer of men.
Screw him. Let him find his own way.

And awfully damn and very, very little
gives me quite as much pleasure
anymore as tossing and chucking,
throwing away this, that and the other thing.

I have learned and forgotten someday.
And bits and pieces of self are wellaway.
What I used to be and once was
is really of not much account anymore.

I may well be a poet after all.
But not a negative or doomsday one,
nor much of an angry one, or even a political one
of any account and no longer care to be.
Nor am I so terribly angry with women anymore--
so those thousands of notes are out the door.

I like women. Always have liked them but
along with that liking was this other thing,
this Blackwitch kind of thing out of my past--
where it seems to be staying, as well it may:
Little by little, day-by-day, subtracting less and less
from my living, and, as a rule,
if it isn't in some way life-enhancing,
it isn't going to be me.

I sat here in this little writing room
and I met just extraordinary people!
Entrancing, wonderful smarter than me people.
People whose minds bubbled and sparkled and spit;
people of such exceptional spiritual beauty,
that being the last in a line of ducks didn't seem so awful.
And it is all pretty likely going to be just fine--
Given that necessary, oh so precious time "online."

And these better'n me people
invited me out of
the tinniest,
whitest
brightest
(meaning coldest)
corner of the universe...
to meet with them, speak with them--and, amazingly enough,
didn't have to! Could have as easily blown me off.
Handed me my cyber hat!
Suggested I not let the door hit me
on my cyber ass on the way out!
With a boot and a phoot could have
sent me on my way--but did not.
And this is by way of saying to them,
I have met Gunga Din.

And so this once so spiritually deadened me,
chancing finally down the right highway,
found and was invited into a hotel
I was sure I could not afford:
the concierge asked spiritual honesty!
A fee far beyond my capability.
(I expected to pay by amusing!)
But unexpectedly there it was in my pocket.
I know I didn't put it there, this heart's honesty.
(I am a world champion shuffler, you see.)
Nor the courage I found unexpectedly along side it.
God knows how it got there! Certainly I don't know.
But without it I would not have known Marie, Sunny and Annmarie.

I have taken time off, time out,
regained, reclaimed and studied time.
Not yet a monster, time is a gift I shall regret losing.
I intend to regret its loss fully, and whine and shedactualwetmoisthothumidpatheticsnottytears
over the loss of this particular time of my life.

Time, for a deliberately blinded while, stretched on into infinity,
was full of wonder and potential in which I could know
and be known. Here time was a place
where we reached unforeseen heights and depths of soul,
cried, sang and held hands.

IN MY LIFE
In my life, I've raised no bridges,
cured no diseases,
and never made a million dollars.
I could have been a better father,
brother, son, husband and friend.
I have accomplished little
and nothing of any moment.
But I wrote a poem.
And if I do nothing else in life,
I will have done that.
That's important because it was while doing that
I came in contact with perhaps God;
perhaps merely a better version of myself
than ever was before.
For an all too brief time I stopped being silly,
and held just still as something within
was touched by Something out there.
All wondering ceased.
Knowing was.
God is in the praying.
Love in the telling.

Poems Copyright 2001 by Ronald L. Haun

Table of Contents

Letter to the Author:
Ronald L. Haun at Ronalot23@aol.com