We learned in life too late
the profoundness of an hour,
and only near the close of day
before our ghost call hither —
We learned too late indeed,
but only from high vantage,
the day has some light yet
for life to take advantage.
Uninspiring days of late, but that’s mostly just my current perspective. I can do better.
The tunnel’s light shone bright as hope
unblemished by the heat of suns
passing over by for many seasons,
yet unacknowledged were those burns —
The tunnel’s light shone bright in turn
that we so near will soon embrace it,
arrived at last beyond the darkened walls,
from blind to blinded in our awe.
It was never about youth, just youthfulness.
When I made friends with my own Life,
I asked where we went wrong:
That decade passing by
was one nap missed since yesterday,
and more hairs turning gray today
than memories turning dull
with Autumn’s last goodbyes —
But still, still patient is this Life,
as malcontent as motivated:
We might just order salad yet.
“Miles to go before I sleep” – so it goes, and so too I must keep moving.
I borrow from a debt deferred,
whose time comes unannounced,
but such its paltry interest
that hardly did I doubt
a splurging day or week of treats
those sleepless nights didn’t count —
And such has grown its toll in light
that no swindler could conceive,
yet old a tale as debt to self,
it never fails to bring new griefs.
Fight for today then; that’s my next play until I get to where I need to be.
Cozy is the privileged view
of snow beyond the window,
serene the afternoon
with sips of tea too mellow,
from such a dimming day
would sigh to rest encumbered
watching safely in the warmth,
both shielded and yet hollow.
One day at a time. 4 hours still at least. I have only myself to excuse.
Somewhere just beyond the minute’s reach
where splashing waves and shimmers beckon,
that waiting there, held mutual gazes,
we understood without words spoken —
But here, enveloped in a sleepless hour’s hold
where empty airs would wind and circulate,
a thought was free, but lost the same,
what day and dame did not reciprocate.
“If only you would know // the things I long to say…”
Such letters, words, as these – at once a collected jumble, and yet containing so much more. Is that the meaning of free association then, for those who can see connections between lists of words?
If I did one, might as well do three. Freely, too.
Are associations ever truly free? What does free even mean in this case?
Just another drop,
an ocean of leftovers,
collective smiles, sad —
But they rejected too,
companions of this wallow,
stories too well-matched —
Gusts of hurricane,
lashing angry upon sails,
mellowed at the shore.
A little different from the usual form for tonight, but a topic otherwise evergreen.