Monday, February 8, 2016


Creeping through the darkness
having lost all memory
of human touch upon my skin,
I long for the forgotten memory
of my freedom to be what I was
and go about as I would.

I am dead to me, the I of young is gone
the memory of the past is
fading and I find I am nothing.
Not a thing worth thinking over
or wondering for,
there is no more I of value to this place.

Patience is torture as I belly crawl
in the darkness of both night and day
waiting for a final breath overly long in coming.
I do not lament this life
only that my final memories will be of it as it is now,
not as it was when the I of a free man lived.

© M Durfee

I have so little memory of The Walking Man that he is dead within me.

Wednesday, January 27, 2016


Troubled weather is always evident if one knows what they see.
It is not a matter of education as much as knowledge gained
by being in the storms or on the calm seas.
Words can try to tell the story of an uncluttered star filled night
but until it is seen the knowledge is only a concept, a wish, a hunger, a dream.
Imagination is a spark, nothing more, it is a thought leading to a door, nothing more.
When eyes see, ears hear then one experiences the concepts of reality,
the Zen of knowing that everything is growing, always growing—until it dies
and then in that moment is when judgment of the thing shown that was,
may finally set in. The line left behind is the only way one can truly be known.

© M Durfee

For all but especially my friend Emma

Sunday, January 10, 2016


In the darkest portion of my soul is a window pane
where only a skeletal bone scrapes the unlit glass.
The scree noise of the ever present, but sometimes silent thing,
brings back howling haunts of memory that never flee,
experienced life never tracked back behind me.
It taps and runs, this bony finger, on the glass.

The many fearsome long drawn out fights to escape
from the too short day to the longer night
growing a’lays darker with the fading of the light.
While the mind wanders in the midst of sleepless obscurity.
Every tap, every scrape sound triggers memory
of every blow ever struck, every piercing given by the hand of me.

Experiences with their fearsome memory, warming, comfort me,
blanket my soul for having stood alone, a human being.
Living again in the silent spaces, save the scraping noise in my mind.
Bracing for the assault memories that once were walled, blocked,
that come rushing in torrents of destruction trying to flood me with ruin of regret
to find the times for all that might have been, could have been but went unseen.

Hold back, hold back a while more says I, I fought, I warred
against the many layered hatreds lying wait deep inside of me.
For what cause do I fall into the room where in me is the evil,
the putrid smell of deadly gloom. No good can come of it,
no worthy effort shall ever arise as I remember, every drunk
long punched out cry calling from the wasted year gone bye.

I will no regret; for times and days turned to nights,
for blood spilled or men killed not slain by my hand
but my words which struck out in ferocity with deadly accuracy.
Aye there is the pen and then the sword
but first of all comes the thought, then the words.
Making the killing so much easier in the feral night.

What does it mean, this place of hatreds inside of me?
Nothing except I am still a living normal human being.

© M Durfee