Made of Life

The ache that is we couldn’t know
Our eyes could not foresee
It’s everywhere we look it’s part
Of our humanity

Anxiety and panic
Futility and strife
For life is made of failure
And we are made of life

We reach out to the lonely ones
We cast our vision wide
As others too reach out to us
Though left or cast aside

Cacophony and discord
The gun the noose the knife
For life is made of sorrow
And we are made of life

The heartbeat borne in stillness
The pleasure dead and gone
The memory of wonder
That all this still goes on

In secrecy or public
And withal we are rife
The journey each alike is on

What must be made

Of life

another great wall

in disrepair, neglected,
emptied out of much of value,
a part of town where you and i
don’t go

in corners made for sitting,
and in windows stark and glaring,
a couple of chip wrappers and
some blow

in kindergarten, once, there were
some gold stars and a ribbon,
a child disremembered
and abjured

in disrepair, neglected,
emptied out of much of value,
beside a wall where nothing is
assured

except that minutes
have to be

endured

the storm rolls in and over her

the storm rolls in and over her;

a world of changing metaphor:

of summer sunlight turned to rain –

to dark and damp and ever-pour –

 

inside the rainbow of her dreams,

yet lives a shadow, once in light —

the storm rolls in and covers her,

and helpless day gives way

to hopeless

night

The Hollow Day

A September poem, not previously published.

The Hollow Day

I sit untrammeled mid the hollow day.
Just as the sky is empty, so are we,
‘Neath random bits of cloud now blown our way
That block September’s hospitality
From shining, golden, down on you and me.
It’s ever as it was, since time began —
The hollow day within the hollow man

The day that comes is like the sea…

.. the happy, busy, playful sea.

The day that comes is like the sea,
The happy, busy, playful sea –
So much, right there, in front of me:
Alas, though – I am empty

The night that comes is like a fair,
Or carnival, with treasures rare –
The lights shine on beyond compare:
Alas, though – I’m unseeing

For day and night and night and day
Go on the old fantastic way,
With new friends and new games to play —
But here I am, in harrows

The day that comes is wide indeed,
With miracles that I’m sure feed
Into the life I’d like to lead –
For now, I’m
In the narrows

Hallways : Gray Egress

Today, the world seems cold and gray.
I hope it doesn’t stay that way –
It chills me to my very bone,
A creature, silent and alone

And colden days come back to me
Gray hours by a churning sea
I’d stare into uncaring waves
And dream of her I longed to see

Another gray time now I view:
An autumn day that we once knew
You told me you must go away
The painful words I knew were true

So here again, amidst the gray
Another cold, indifferent day
I shiver, slightly, deep in thought
And travel towards what destiny
Has wrought

the meanwhile butterfly

he saw discomfort written on his hands
and felt his will be thwarted by the world;
the patterns, all chaotic, of perchance
that settled dark in clouds and murky swirled

he turned inside to search out where the light
had gone, and why the bioverse gives pain;
he wanted sun, the shoulder-sun of june,
but felt it weakly through a window pane

he missed the meanwhile butterfly go by
the she without that turns the we to i

escaped from prism, eager to go forth;
the lesson of the worm, turned
metamorph


© Nylakatara2013 | Dreamstime.com – Butterfly iris