The currents move us, strong and swift,
and sometimes too the winds assist,
and towards or for or up against
a path uncharted through the mists —
Fatigued perhaps, the anchor dropped,
a respite in the fast-paced fog,
but still the currents pass on by,
the winds along their aimless course —
Transfixed in hand with compass, steady,
though firmness seems at once unhelpful,
and yet the comfort North provides
gives hope between each tiring mouthful.
Change seems the only steady constant, and let me be reminded that I forgot to keep in stride. Never again.
Were we so satisfied
as to happily subsist
on cups of mellow stew
and rest on concrete bliss,
or smile for stale bread
to stretch each dollar less,
to find there in defiance
a proudness of the poor,
too noble to conceive
not all sufferings are calls
to any higher purposes
beyond collective faults.
“and in the face of ignorance and resistance…” let there be progress. Stay focused on the goal.
A minute here and there seems naught
but idle breaks and banter in a stride,
and yet an hour’s somehow lost
amid these inconsequential enterprises —
An hour here or there seems naught
when yours’ the week to finish tasks,
yet six of seven days slipped by
and no free hours there upon the last —
Then months, then years, and nigh,
another story near its final cusp,
with bargains struck for any minute more
when years of dreams were not enough.
“every second you’re alive.” Every second, you’re alive.
A foolish task undoubtedly,
another failed adventure penned,
and yet the urge to write again
did not on skill, or readership, depends;
The hopes of pilgrimage pervade,
our ordinary souls rebirthing
to strive the thousandth time achieve
a dream perfected from date one.
Though stained those mortal strides,
the sweat and ink of banal movements,
could glean just twice in mortal’s time
enough of truths to worth committing.
The question is why don’t I write like I’m running out of time…for all I know, I am.