All the Many Days

 

 

 

All The Many Days

 

Though birthdays seem to come and go,

like a clock's pendulum swaying to and fro,

I ponder why then time does not

allow the ease to reset the last dot.

 

Standing at the door’s way

a form, holding a white candle,

a flickering silhouette against the dark;

the posture neither enters nor exits;

 

Nor does it say

why it passes this way

or whether it will stay

or go.

 

The imposing figure does not move nor sway,

merely a form furrowing the white light;

a presence radiating forth

to name each frame hanging on the wall.

 

A whispering voice, in trembling dismay,

neither mortal nor specter, seeks a breath’s last stand

and demands the account of me

and all things hidden by so many wondered years.

 

"How have all the many days

come to this one moment now

and why did you not sleep?"

the voice asked.

 

I replied, "The time and years did sway

and through dance and song

I laughed and cried – for I was once

to be that or this. And so now, after all - life is still.

 

Will you tear at my fay

when you strike at my name?

Speak words of comfort

that I shan’t soon be a dearly departed!"

 

"Only after I leave will words say

that which was saved from last pray;

wish upon the candles so to live another day."

an echo was the last sounding answer.

 

And thus, another year was my play

as I took each candle and wished

to find many more a day -

where have I come to now - who will say.

 

On the Kindred Ship

 

 

 

On the Kindred Ship

 

When is it proper to welcome time;

Is it when it sails in

And becomes – present;

Or perhaps when it is passed

And glancing at its wake – past

 

Should one; can one see either view

As neither an old tale to be retold

Nor as the indomitable now -

Where every moment was never

And will never be – forever

 

What is found in life’s seas;

Is it what one knows or what one sees;

Where what we are; is what we were

And what we were; is what we will be –

Which dimension is real if there is no - time

 

And, if all the oceans are but one

Pool where life and death are currents

That flow and swirl in endless time

So that all futures are as all pasts

Then the one thing; the only thing

is the empty vase holding nothing – that is left.

Dying of the Light

 

As with the dying rays of the late day

Flowing through the thinning boughs

Of the Maples, the Oaks and the Birch

A glimmering sense of introspection

Sparks longings and passions

Desiring the pleasures of autumn’s color

To sustain the affair and yet,

Understanding that nothing remains

Unchanged nor will it be requited by a wistful wish.

The waning days of Fall gradually concede

Their hold of the sunlight and her warmth -

One must forget the urgencies of spring

And the swoons of summer so to leave

Their precious moments to romance

For the stoic says, ‘bring in the wood

And prepare the fireplace and hearth

To keep the cold at bay”.

 

As November’s falling days

Slip away into the gray somber skies

Filled with galleons of menacing clouds

Driven by the biting gales off the cold waters

Of the mighty lake -

A candle light dances along the walls

As hot ginger tea simmers a winter’s plea:

What must we be to see - another bee?