Still Forgotten

It is one thing to die, it is another to be forgotten...

 

Still Forgotten

 

 

Left alone, the abyss of failure

closes in,

for days it seems like weeks,

though months are now reduced to counted minutes

 

Coffin’d stances form the stoic barricade

which surrounds my hope

in picket lines of untrained defectors

 

I claw at its lid,

thrashing mightily to my sides

as collections of miseries

flood this chamber of my coerced sleep

 

“I am here!” I shout,

hearing my words

echo in distance dance halls

two stepping on my memory,

spitting above where I lie

 

Here - a relevant term

as columns of disbelief carve themselves

from my mind.

 

Forgotten, left for dead,

erased from the blackboard

by the firm swishing hand of fate…

reduced to dust (I don’t feel like dust)

 

Blisters climb my arms in search of answers,

none can be found here,

where ever the hell here is… yet, I am here

 

My brain circles the skyline in desperation,

the gutters below cry, trash strewn as if it were me

sleeping off my drunk

in that Frigidaire box

 

“I am me!” I cry to the empty corridors of someone else’s life…

One I’d rather be

Or one who would rather not?

 

                      ~

 

Someday my file may lie open,

atop a desk,

a partitioned sanctuary of hidden ethics,

beneath the crumpled Cheeto’s bag,

now layered with orange crumbs

 

maybe someone will see

 

perhaps…still forgotten

 

 

 

 

Author's Note

Thank you for reading

Reviews

[icelandicblue]

There are all different kinds of death and degrees of it too. I think we all wonder how we will be remembered or even if we will be remembered and if we are for how long. I like to think that even if our names are forgotten our good deeds will be remembered in some fashion.

[Jack...]

I'm with you Blue. Thanks so much.

[Bradley Layton]

I agree, when we sit down and think of what we have done in our live or have accomplished in our time, this short life, (I know im still young, but it crosses my mind)and you step back in your own mind and realize how small you are compared to how big the world is... its alot to take in. For instance, when you look in the obituraries and see random faces you kinda just flip on by without a thought... it sucks to think of being only a paragraph, a compilation of your life and who you left behind in a newspaper thats gonna be tossed away at the end of the day. But indeed what matters most is the affect you had on those you care for and love.

[Daisie Vergara (Dhaye)]

“I am me!” I cry to the empty corridors of someone else’s life…
One I’d rather be
Or one who would rather not?"

Something profound. It seems that you know yourself a little...but still you don't know who you really are...someone you'd rather be, or one who would rather not?
While you are left alone forgotten by others, you are also forgotten...by you yourself.

I like the free verse. :)

[Jack...]

Thank you Dhaye, I truly appreciate you sweet words. perhaps profound, probably me

[Daisie Vergara (Dhaye)]

:)

[Baby Ricochet]

"In spite of everything she's done she is forgotten" John Cale, Magic and Lies. Great and sad poem jack

[Jack...]

Thanks my friend.

[Sami Khalil]

"Someday my file may lie open,
atop a desk,
a partitioned sanctuary of hidden ethics,"
Perhaps we will be in the sanctuary of your love and sadness remembered buy not forgotten among your friends...Another great write...:)

[Jack...]

Thank you so much Sami.

[Sami Khalil]

My pleasure...:)

[Angi]

Jack, I have just met you and I would certainly remember. Your words are inside of me now. From reading all of the reviews and comments from your friends here, your words are inside of them, too. Lovely, piece!
Angi

[Jack...]

Thank you Angi for your extremely kind words.

[Angi]

Most welcome, my new friend!

[TL Boehm]

uff da. I have that genealogy habit I told you of. It causes a gnaw in my gut to think of lives reduced to a few lines in a book....but it is all too common. I think its one of the motivators behind my writing. Both to remember and be remembered. This is a wrenching write.

[Jack...]

Well I can honestly say this is the first time anyone has ever saud Uff da to me. :) You know Tammy, I do wonder often if I will be remembered and how I will be remembered if I am. I can only hope that my memory will make people smile. Thank you for being my friend. I can tell you one thing, I definitely will never forget your smile.

[s y e]

This was a very meaningful write, Jack. It was really deep and very touching. This was a very relatable write that I thoroughly enjoyed reading. You capture the emotion so perfectly.

100/100!

[Jack...]

Sye, you are always appreciated in my world and I can assure you, you will be one I do not forget. Thank you so much.

[Ken Simm.]

Deep meaningful work here Jack. Touches and takes the mind into territories perhaps we would rather not think of. We are immortal perhaps through the memories of those who come after but to be unremembered that is the true death.

[Jack...]

Thank you Ken, Unfortunately it is a fear I know.

[Ken Simm.]

That cannot happen now because of here and your art.

[Jack...]

You never know Ken. The world moves so quickly now...the old saying, Here today, gone tomorrow. There are guys who work for me who have no idea at all who the Beatles were.

[Ken Simm.]

There is another old saying that people always get wrong when they are talking about me. They say forgotten but not gone. .... I know weak humour.

[Ken Simm.]

Found the same with the kids I taught. What was important to us meant nothing to them.

[Jack...]

Another old saying...How soon we forget

[Rita L. Sev]

Perhaps this is what Thoreau meant when he said that we live lives of quiet desperation. It is the fear that we, our lives, our work, will be forgotten, an then what has it meant? That is why we write - or sing - or paint - or interact in any tangible way. We are not forgotten by those whom we have touched. This is a profound piece, Jack.

[Jack...]

Thank you so much Rita. I do wonder sometimes...

[jacob erin-cilberto]

did you mean "failure"?

someone surely will remove that Cheeto's bag and find a treasure trove of words...

one part of this reminds me of Juliet when she wakes in the tomb..."i know well where i should be, there i am"

we are the poetry we write...and even as the rest of us turns to dust...that will remain like a ring, or a tooth...a reminder of what we were in life.

jacob