Those casual hours lost to record,
the idled in music, art, or words,
that even footnotes won’t recall
when reminiscing what’s occurred;
Yes, those hours, days at times,
indulging in another’s glimpses
of a world beyond this banal realm
adapted for our entertainment;
The other hours, what of them?
Or has the easy satisfaction
made complacent while rapt
within another soul’s creation?
In all, the years will steady shrink,
the tally from each choice divided —
how fall the hours on each side
before our final one’s decided?
“Write like you’re running out of time…” Well, not quite there yet. But I suppose I have the rest of my life to get better. Maybe finish stories 6 and 7 for starters…or you know, your dissertation…
Just one could drive us mad,
a compelling, all-attentive curse,
by dreams its depth explored,
by day enacted and rehearsed;
Yet knowing how that path unfolds,
where stringent strides lead wayward,
could not deter steps ill-advised
conducted with a prideful comfort;
And years perhaps, nigh arbitrary,
the youthful odds will come up short —
had experience helped restraint though,
it stood no chance as the last resort.
To laugh or to lament those wiser choices acknowledged yet unheeded. Laugh. Always.
Staring past the pitch-black dark,
a stillness only stoked by blades of fan,
a nightly ritual bidding dreams to make
the slightest sense of what we can’t;
Hours lulling would seem lazy, yet,
reflecting restless has a hurried pace,
exhausting more of goals and plans
than failing senses can by day replace;
So here we find ourselves again,
awake, aware of one more rise,
the windows fogged and cold beyond
to match those indecisive eyes.
“Better stop and take stock…Alright, what do you want?” How about sleep for once…or is 3:30 A.M. writing the slightest more effective?
Fallen leaves swirled delicate
beneath the radiant night,
a gift of hallowed moonlight
as hands held fast strolled by —
Departing wind left hints of winter,
for still the cold has lingered on,
so closer stride beside my dear,
the road ahead will lead us home —
Summer’s love will fade in days,
the gaudy sun to dim and whimper,
but with a certain cherished care
woven hands keep warm and tender.
It’s been a rough year for poems about love. Things do get better though, and this one came together superbly.
Forgiving comes too easily
when forgiving is for self,
a virtue won so effortless
between every promise failed;
But lawyer up for blunders!
Infractions nigh inaudible
from those who owe you nothing
inconvenience with their aims;
Yet both would preach by Sunday
the values learned from faults —
another seven days to go though
before forgiving can result.
So many skillsets I could have chosen to develop, and yet I chose a dead-end one that is poetry.
Compelled by tired thoughts
at the edge of sleepless still,
recalling all that day had lost
and months had made less real;
Now stirred that well-known ghost
whose form has not yet faded,
a tempting guest fatigue indulged,
both longing loved and just as hated;
Then comes tomorrow’s light,
dispelling once again the miss,
that distance and the sun can hide
but in darkness mind cannot resist.
And already the memories start to fog. The sound, the scent, then touch comes next. Were it not for pictures here and there, you’d almost think forgetting’s our default state.
You never could have guessed
for sure beyond the hilly bent
if straight along or sideways
that future road would end —
You’ve heard a tale perhaps,
and dreamt between the naps,
but there beyond the bend
the path had not been mapped.
It helps to know of course,
to see what’s past the hillside —
some roads can lead to home
despite a foreign sunrise.
I guess the only thing I can say for certain about tomorrow is that I can’t actually know. At least for now, I have a half-kept secret in this blog…
A celebrated start on deck,
the long awaited journey,
to bring about that growth
supposed brought by scenery;
But shelters off in distant,
reprieving stress in temporal,
has no more birthed self anew
than spun a tale ephemeral;
Were tales though mere escape,
their grip would fail with age,
yet relive we the wandering steps
despite a same or brand new place.
Ultimate frustration at times, isn’t it? There will never be a static solution in the passage of time for dynamic systems. At least I will be entertained.
There lies a price for more than naught,
an ounce of time for even pennies,
that exertions outweigh joys deferred
for now in hopes of later plenty —
And like all bets placed on a future,
the play held tightly at the chest;
a bluff will not endure the raises, calls,
for wanting your tomorrow’s best.
As the saying goes, remember why you started. The year has brought its share of sadness, and I’ve made time to wallow in that grief. Today is over now, however; tomorrow’s coming yet. Keep moving on.
Blinded from the golden glints,
the vagrant signs of prior victories
which recent years so desolate spent
could only live in glorious history —
Yet longing for the long-way gone
like admirations of your plaques,
that fleeting, ignoring all your pleas
for a past that won’t come back.
As the saying goes, if you’re going through hell, keep going.