Going Down In History (Poetry)

I am thinking of my future historian as I write this —
letting him/her know that I am conscious of the words —
how they fall together as a pattern to my life —
its nuances and variations.

There are mistakes — areas where there’s an abrupt
and definite break in concentration —
a fading out of purpose...
then getting back on track is slow —
poems limp along — the heart sore and blistered.

The colour of routine holds a steady blue-grey tone
determined at the edges
ideas blotting one on top the other
sentences gush a storm-fed river
all my life here somewhere —
tossed up on loose pages —
fish-thoughts gasping — flipping over —
out of their dark element.

My own private shoreline
jostling with small wrecks that I pick over —
retrieve what I can each day —
beachcombing for clues to who I really am
and now I have this rambling collection —
these notes all valid in their way
for someone else to sort again.

Events unfold — have impact —leave
a map of scars notched into memory.

Paper takes it all — the unwise exhumations
and the truth — I find it harder now to tell bone
                from foolish bone —
or choose order over chaos
when random impulse carves its own design
and this deviation comforts me — provides an alternative
less-than-sure identity.

Alone in my white field — a pockless stretch
of secret sand I might
walk upon — whip up — or rake silk-smooth
while I keep messaging somebody yet unborn —
an historian with small ideals — meticulous with detail —
who’ll follow
matching stride for stride the plot points given
by a wanderer long-dead.