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My Muses are the offspring of my memory
And God. The Greeks were right. I sing my memory.

Can poets then be ignorant? Can poets fail to love?
The poets sing the songs of God from memory.

And thus I must sing songs of love and celebrate
All life, my wife, and all the joys of memory.

My joy’s the joy of one who lives in Paradise
Because my trip through Hell remains in memory.

I had the shroud around my eyes burned off
So I could see the gold of my deep memory –

The human, tribes expanding into everyone
To make a network building social memory

The mammal, touch, emotion, and the lobe-finned drives
Of ritual and property in memory

Perhaps we also touch the stars in which we’re born,
And back before there’s time, the naught of memory.

The terror that is there will fling you back to earth
To see creation’s beauty as God’s memory,

And thus I live in joy because I’ve seen the truth,
True virtue and deep beauty through my memory.

I hope this love of life, of God, of man, my wife
Will help keep me, Troy Camplin, in your memory.