Such a pitiful thing
This hollow heart,
It pushes the blood
Round and about,
Forcing the exchange
Of nutrients and oxygen.
It is never idle.
It never sleeps.
Though it serves
To meet some cardiovascular needs,
One cannot consider it
Much of a hiding place.
Would that it were
A treasure chest,
That secret cache where
All things cherished
Were said to fit.
And only I would
Be the keeper of the key.
But neither attic nor garage
Exists inside,
Not a closet or a steamer trunk,
No drawer for gold coins to hide,
Let alone,
People and places.
All I possess is this hollow heart,
This muscled safe,
This space too small
To save too much of anything.
Perhaps it is with narrow view
That I have come to this conclusion,
That this organ isn’t anything
But chambered flesh.
And yet I’ve managed to stash
So much within;
Feelings and memories,
My soul, my visions.
I have managed to stow them
Somewhere close upon my person.
And with a world of love,
An age of peace,
A lifetime of experiences
And more to keep
There must be a warehouse,
A cavern inside
Where I have stored up
This colossal treasure.
I suppose,
To hold all of this,
And You in my heart,
There must be,
Let’s say,
Magic, indeed. Having had a two-valve replacement in my heart this spring, I can attest to understanding its purpose far and above mere controlling blood flow. For with that flow, rides the entirety of our life, impacting limbs, and brain with rejuvenation and insight. Oxygen. What a magical element.
I think that the reverence given to the muscle that is our heart come from ancient ignorance about how the body worked. When that pump that could be felt with a pulse, stopped, all memory, communication and life shown in the eyes and the body, also stopped. People thought that all thoughts of emotions were centered there.
When science found out that all of these emotions, memories and other wonderful spiritual stuff resided in the brain, the old idea of the heart still beating the place of the center of the human existence has carried on and even been multiplied by language and holidays like Valentine's Day.
And, because of this nostalgic lingering, the heart may never really thought of what it actually is: just the hardest working muscle in the body. And a muscle that we tend not to take very good care of until it's too late and all the love in the world will bring it back--so we replace it with another one.
Welcome!
The poems in this beautifully bound book are a result of over twenty years of observations. Observations of the world around us and on the telecommunications network. All of the hate, love, heroism, disasters, and those who help.
Beautif
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When science found out that all of these emotions, memories and other wonderful spiritual stuff resided in the brain, the old idea of the heart still beating the place of the center of the human existence has carried on and even been multiplied by language and holidays like Valentine's Day.
And, because of this nostalgic lingering, the heart may never really thought of what it actually is: just the hardest working muscle in the body. And a muscle that we tend not to take very good care of until it's too late and all the love in the world will bring it back--so we replace it with another one.
Ron