Memoirs Poem by Frank Avon

You ought to write
your memoirs,
not for anyone else,
only for yourself.

In the words of
a memoir
you live again
what you half-

lived before
unheard.
and now cherish
so much more.

Memoirs don't have
to rhyme;
they're not confined
to dactyls or iambs;

your seven score and ten
won't happen in stanzas,
there's no sharp line
between an octave

and a sestet;
the only couplets
are birthday cakes
with candles

or champagne
for an anniversary,
or egg nog
around the Yule.

Memoirs
are all middle;
the beginning and the end
are beyond one's ken.

Of course, memoirs
are a form of fiction,
reality as one
remembers it,

but there comes a time
when what one remembers
is quite as real
as what can be documented.

At least make a list:
graph the peaks
of your experience
and the people

of whom your life
is mostly composed,
the places
you hold sacred,

the works of art
(poems, paintings,
music, sculpture)
which are a part

of who you are,
books you read,
movies and the stars
whom you admired,

icons and idols,
artifacts
you treasure,
the weathers

you enjoyed
or endured,
escapes you made,
what all occurred

in your travels,
treks, pilgrimages,
your climbs, falls,
your entourage,

your destinations,
and stops along
the way - to see,
to rest, to play,

whether in awe
or idleness,
the surprises
and the crises:

let the memories roll,
relive your life,
your decades, your eras,
the eternities

you've risen toward,
you've sprung from:
these are the chapters,
these are the tomes,

these are the scrolls,
these are the stones
you gather in an ark,
hold up to the light,

cling to in the dark,
from time to time unroll
to sanctify the hour
and satisfy your Soul.

Write your memoirs:
consecrate what's yours.