Book of Songs

In those early days

There were choices to make

And directions to choose

Life was in a hurry to unfold

Yet impatience wished the years away

Like newspaper pages caught by the wind

taking  momentary flight

All those words and those stories

Finding sudden wings

Hoping to find a comfortable place in the world of dreams

You had to choose

But choose within the bounds

Of school counsellors, parents, society

You couldn’t choose to be a musician

That would have to come later

That was just a dream

You had to make a living

So you put down your guitar

And burned your book of songs

Scribbled from the heart

You went to business college and learned to type reports

And letters to whom it may concern

You were young and the world seemed boundless

But it taught you to conform

You could walk through many doors

But it was sometimes hard to choose

The one that would lead to a version of you

So many doors would beckon

And so many close in your face

There were many that made you welcome

But you weren’t sure if this was your place

Work, they say, is good for the soul

I say it depends on what you do

And there is flesh and spirit

To draw and to drive

Sometimes the choices are out of your control

They are no choice at all

Our instincts get the better of us

But we learn and go on choosing

In the end, we may learn to do what’s best

But for whom? Perhaps we maximise

Happiness, create the greatest good

We know we should

Be happy and loved

But that depends on the choice of door

And how we shake those ghosts that shadow our paths

Then one day the sky is clear

We see the clouds for what they are

Or what they might become

We see ourselves, and our choices

And walk back to those early doors

look beyond the dark passages

or look lovingly at memories in the corners of candle lit rooms

taste wine and tears and skin

gently close the eyelids of the dead

let our dreams rise to the surface

and waft like incense to perfume our remaining days

remember we lived and learned and loved and chose

we hurt and cared and carried on, choosing to live

and when we arrive our regrets may be few

for the choices we made that we cannot undo

that painted our history on the canvas of time.  

 (c) Deb Matthews-Zott 2011