The youth of friends, some dead and gone, preserved
Places whose impressions have faded
Boxes of memories, of things past,
Boxes of my life, saved up
For when I shall some day need them
Precious only to me
And to those who love me
The true picture of my life
Taken through the lens of G-d's love
Utterly truthful, yet unjudging
Unlike when I'm gloomy or grandiose
Proof that my memory is not perfect
A collection of preserved moments
Forms a canvas of a life well lived
If they are gone, do I cease to be?
History is a world of documents
Without which is only the confusing here and now
To live in the here and now
And yet remember the past as it was
Is the goal of a serene existence
Did I go to China?
Did I really see women with bound feet?
How big was Tiananmen Square?
What color was the Dalai Lama's palace?
Did I ever see the Earth from Space?
How many times have I been to Egypt?
Didn't I live in Switzerland?
What did my friends look like then?
And how many were there?
Did I go to exotic parties
In San Francisco and Tokyo?
I can't keep my erotic inventory
All in my head
Who were all the women I have known?
Were they really as beautiful as I remember?
So many details of Israel
I'm sure I've forgotten
Japan, my home for so many years
I must have had some happy times
If I could only remember
If only there were some proof
Would it temper the bitterness?
Our love of visual media
Make modern people vulnerable
To a new kind of Alzheimer's
Whatever skill people of yesteryear had
For living their lives without pictures
We no longer possess
Without our crutch we stumble
The loss of a window to the past
Is the loss of a happy place
Of a cherished refuge
The loss of loved one
April is National Poetry Writing Month