What We Create

eWhat We Createf

 

And yet I cannot to my satisfaction be certain

That my mother existed outside of me,

Since everything I experience

Takes place within me.

 

I can say only that I believe she existed

When she was not in my presence

Or not a presence in my mind.

 

But that is as far as it goes

Because believing and knowing

 

Are not the same.

 

Death seems to have removed her

From the physical world forever,

 

Even though she is

An active character

In my waking life.

 

But I believe she is a part of the “me” that came before me,

And thus, an explanation of my momentary present.

 

Therefore, what new things she moves in me

Seem destined to be parts of my future.

 

Perhaps those we love are our inventions,

And like God, we do not easily let go

 

Of what we create.

 

Our loved ones may exist

Because we want them to exist.

Reviews

[Ken e Bujold]

My first read of yours Paris, and I am very impressed. The easy cadence of this poem wraps your reader in a comfy blanket, while the theme's deeply personal lilt transports one to the core of our emotional-physical existential underpinnings. The idea of: does anything exist outside of our own consciousness of it. Foucault's principle writ large.

rest assured i will be back for another visit

ken

[Paris Hlad]

Thanks, Ken - I'll visit your site soon.