12 Perspectives – 3

Fear and hope are sisters, oft confused;
The world has changed so fast since yesterday —
She could not have foreseen what she now feels,
For first times are like strangers in that way.
She wants to run, but also wants to stay:
Her expectation rises, and then sinks —
And why is everything so hard, she thinks.

It’s all embarrassing, and very strange.
To wait and look, but hope that she won’t see:
To relive every gesture and exchange,
And parse out every word to find the key
That can unlock this tangled mystery.
And car goes by, a bird flits through the yard:
She thinks, Why does it have to be so hard?

A New Day’s Year

There comes a time the frost must fall away;
Sometimes the thaw is difficult and slow.
Though night be cold, and bitter be the day,
With snow and rain, and cutting winds that blow,
The sun will work its magic, even so.
Remember when the ice your feeling numbs:
The heat will come. It will. It always comes.

I stood out in a field of many stones.
The trees were frozen white on every side;
Familiar family names, and some unknowns,
Through tears that froze before they ever dried.
So little life the words there could provide:
Of what and where and who all these had been,
These unknown women and forgotten men.

I looked for one, and found him on a hill.
A handshake firm, a strong and steady gaze,
A tender heart withal an iron will,
And ready with encouragement and praise
For fighters of the family fight, always.
The long winds blow, they blew him to this place;
Asleep now in this high and frigid space.

To know of life, we have to know of death.
It seems so cruel, but that is how things are:
The careless, one day, struggling for breath,
The poor unfortunate, the superstar,
Alike in this. We all end up at par.
And it can all seem vanity, and smoke —
A tragedy, or maybe one big joke.

There comes a time the frost must fall away;
Always the thaw is difficult and slow.
Nights will be cold, and bitter yet the day,
With snow and rain, and cutting winds that blow.
The sun will work its magic, even so —
Though tears may freeze before they ever spill,
The heat will come one day.
I’m sure
It will



Photo credit : ID 62364939 Mulikov | Dreamstime.com

Video credit : © Denys Kovtun | Dreamstime.com

The Moon Is Not A Terrorist

The moon is not a terrorist; in fact,
She often visits both the poor and sick.
Although she has a schedule that is packed,
And often deals with clouds that can be thick,
She’s regular. And knowing that’s the trick:
The moon is true, not subject to caprice,
And that should bring no fear, but only peace.

The moon is not a soldier or a spy;
She does not aim to kill, or try to steal.
The moon’s a corporeal lullaby,
A friend, though far away, who’s very real,
Who gives your very goodnight a words her seal.
As children know, once sung their fav’rite tune,
It’s time to sleep when they hear “Goodnight, Moon”

the day goes past

the day goes past my sight and turns to gray
as distant, floating things become unseen;
so much i’ve known has gone, or dimmed away —-
the brightly colored world of seventeen
has faded like an aging magazine,
and falls within the shadow of the storm,
to lose all hue, and barely keep its form.

the rains must come, they must, i know it’s so,
the sailor find his way back into port —-
the pilot, too, must let her wand’ring go,
and head back home to file her report,
for nature does, at last, our time cut short.
the day goes past, and fades in grays and blues:
we had our time, and what we have, we lose

On The Heights

Oh, no. There’s no depression anymore.
All that despair, it’s really so jejune —
I have a lot to do, and I’m content.
There’s work enough for even a buffoon
To rise before the sun, and tame the moon.
Don’t look into my eyes, there’s nothing there;
There’s no depression anymore — I swear.

Oh, yes. I still hear voices, that’s just me.
But what I never talk about’s not real —
I am contented with my lot in life,
What isn’t mine to ever have, or feel,
Is just, you know, a thing, a minor deal.
A mortal starts whatever, then it ends;
I still hear voices, but — they say they’re friends.

I dreamed I saw a ribbon by the sea;
A highway full of peaceful, distant lights —
It’s rare I dream these days, or even sleep.
I’ve lost, I think, my battle with the nights;
But for that moment, I was on the heights.
I know that dreams are trivial. I do.
But somehow, what’s not real can still be true.

I wake to darkness, check my phone for time,
And lumber up, where no one sees or knows —
I cast a fishing line out on the ‘net,
But all is silent, as the river flows.
And day by day, a nameless something grows
Outside this room, in people’s thoughtless taunt:
That I have everything a soul could want.

But all of that is silliness. I move
Into the gears that grind throughout my day,
And show up at the place they pay me to,
And serve my minor truths up on a tray.
I stop to throw some words down, just for play:
They echo in my head, these little posts —
And all of it is silliness,
And ghosts

A Song In Silence

… And when the west is red
    With the sunset embers,
The lover lingers and sings
    And the maid remembers.

– Robert Louis Stevenson, “Songs of Travel”

From dusty shelves, she ‘trieves an ancient book.
She reads a song in silence, taking in
The words and pictures with a loving look;
A world of music, long before the din
Of what must be, and what all might have been.
For what she’s lost — it never goes away,
As yielding night gives rise to feigning day.

The sorrows that we carry bury us,
Although we cover artfully each one;
But memories, like songs, are various
In all the ways they help us come undone,
So we can leave the dark, reclaim the sun,
The way she’s doing now, inside a brain
And heart that have known way too much of rain.

So Much The Power

The power that you need to have is yours,
But like so many things, it must be claimed;
It’s in your choices, in and out of doors,
And in a flat refusal to be tamed,
Or to accept unfairly being blamed.
  So guard your conscience, and to it be true:
  So much the power that you need, is you.

The afterwards is easy to arrange;
It’s in the midst of battle things get hard.
But this you’ve seen, and so don’t find it strange
So many keep away when ways are barred,
But you won’t fall for that worn out canard:
  “She shouldn’t go there: it’s to much, too soon -”
  So much the power’s ignoring that old tune

A semblance of an image of a life
Is not enough for you, who’ve known the stars;
The winds will blow: of error, and of strife,
But you are more than clicks and avatars,
Or being trapped within, or behind, bars —
  Believe, then, in the dreams that you’ve held long,
  So much the power’s in starting,