jar, image by Denis Azarenko, on Pixabay
Actualization
“Youth is wasted on the young.”
George Bernard Shaw
If only I had known better
the last words
uttered by the innocent
the naive, the inexperienced
who didn’t know themselves
who had learned nothing
a missed opportunity
ignoring dreams and aspirations
living in fear of mistakes
capturing others in their dramas
precious time
invaluable, priceless
hours, minutes, seconds
unrecoverable
lost forever
squandered, misspent
when we are young
we believe we have excess time
to waste, to throw away
on bad decisions
on petty squabbles
on regret, on mourning
what might have been
wishing for more time
to do it all over again
a pointless hope
impossible, unattainable
an unlearned acceptance
that we are human
taught, tutored
by life and aging
on becoming real
and when we are older
maturity and wisdom
granted to the experienced
loses its value
it depreciates, it lessens
when we are no longer strong
when our body has failed us
our hair has left our head
and travelled to our nose and ears
our skin has sagged and wrinkled
we are overweight, out of breath
shuffling from chair to bathroom and back again
it is then that understanding
knowledge, insight
becomes crushed
under the weight of aging
the vagaries, the caprices
of growing old
our grasp is forever lost
drowned out by deafness
confused by cataracts
smelling of old sweat
tasting of surrender
forgotten in memories
actualization
confidence, perception
is unfortunately found
not in our youth
which is wasted on the young
but when our body submits
and succumbs and collapses
badly timed, inopportune
a final irony
are we complete
have we concluded
not yet, we are still being made
*
The Meaning of Forever
“When I was a child, I talked like a child,
I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child.
When I became a man, I put the ways of childhood behind me.”
(1 Corinthians 13:11)
When I was a child
I didn’t understand death
certain, inescapable
not just for me, but for everyone
death was foreign
unforeseeable, deniable
it wouldn’t happen to me
it was remote, distant
then, when I was eleven or twelve
playing with my cars
or sitting on the toilet or taking a bath
a whisper invaded my mind
if only for a brief second
and I heard the voice say
that my parents would leave me someday
they were going to die
that thought
a pinprick, a realization
was the saddest thing
a black ball in my stomach
a bright migraine light in my eyes
misery, despair
I ran into the living room
my father was sitting in his chair
where he always sat
where he was every night of his short life
and I jumped and sailed through the air
right into his wide-open, comforting arms
screaming and sobbing
broken-hearted, inconsolable
squirming on his lap
hugging his broad chest
begging him not to leave
my father didn’t understand
this momentous event in my life
he couldn’t understand the whisper
he held me and hugged me
loving, caressing
“I will be here with you forever”
and he shushed me until I quieted
“Why don’t I make you some warm milk?”
I tried to hold on to his lap as he stood
but it disappeared and I fell to the floor
I followed him to the kitchen
wiping tears and snot on my sleeves
rubbing my eyes with my tiny fists
I looked up at my father
standing in front of the stove
I knew there would be a time
when he would be gone
missing, departed
unable to hear his gentle, soothing words
I wanted to cry again
I wanted to sob and call out to him
but this time I was very brave
because I knew that was what he wanted
and I held my tears in my eyes
tough, determined
and I didn’t let them escape
I put on a courageous face
he looked back at me
I showed him a small smile
he poured the milk
I sipped the warmth into my belly
“Are you okay now, son?”
I wanted to shout that I was not okay
that I would never ever be okay again
I loved him more than anything
I couldn’t live without him
my world had broken
I was now forever changed
diminished, disfigured
but I couldn’t let it out
I would have to hold it in
strong, masculine
I gave a quiet nod of assent
and I saw him walk away
and again, I heard the whisper
it was then that I became a man
and learned that, on earth, forever has an end
Mark James Trisko has been writing poetry for a very long time, but after retiring recently,
he “heard his muses” yelling loudly in the night begging him to let their voices be heard.
His work is scheduled to appear in Valiant Scribe Literary Journal, Spirit Fire Review, and Amethyst Review. He currently lives in Minnesota, with his beautiful spouse of 47
years, four wonderful children, and eight above-normal grandchildren.
February 2025 issue