Future – noblethemes

Pages of Time: The Unseen Hand

An unseen hand turns the pages of time
And ages fly by but the sky still remains,
And does the range of humanity change?
Time, it seems, has been a poor teacher,
And history, too, an ill-sought preacher;
Thus the same lessons are taught
And oh-so very quickly forgotten
By unruly pupils who never do graduate
But so contemptuously self-congratulate
For achievements that grow cold
As their age grows old with time
As that unseen hand turns another page,
And for all our rage, we pass as shadows
Into the frightful blight of historic night,
But the sky still remains and gives rain
To wash away the stain of our humanity
. . .
An unseen hand turns the pages of time,
Page after page, age upon age upon age

Brighter Days and Ways Ahead

Fret not, there are brighter days ahead and lighter ways to walk;
Blessings will stalk your every step as you are kept in serenity,
Surrounded by a community more like family than blood kindred;
And you will work ‘n play in peace with a brand new lease on life
Not rife with painful anxiety and dubiety in society of false piety,
But tranquil will be your hours and rich the bowers of your heart,
And you will lazily stretch in satisfaction at the attraction of a life
Of graceful beauty in which duty is like a disguised game for fun
Begun with the dawn of each new morning without mourning . . .
Indeed, there are brighter days ahead and lighter ways to walk
As blessings stalk your every step as you are kept in pure serenity

Sometimes These Shadows

Shadows walk with us, sometimes numerous
And often unnoticed, sometimes very clearly,
Sometimes barely visible, sometimes friendly,
Sometimes quite ominous, but always present

Sometimes these shadows come from the past,
Sometimes these shadows forebode the future,
Sometimes these shadows are merely our own,
Sometimes these shadows come from another

Shadows can haunt us and taunt our very souls,
And sometimes strike a cautionary note to us,
But oftentimes they come to call us to recollect
Something long forgotten, before we were born

Yes, the very Ages themselves cast long shadows
That walk with and talk to us, if we see and hear,
And they bespeak the imperfect story of humans,
And they bespeak the imperfect story of our own

Sometimes these shadows come from hell’s pit,
Sometimes these shadows come from heaven,
Sometimes these shadows invoke much terror,
Sometimes these shadows provoke much peace

But always these shadows in our shadow land;
Shadows walk with us . . . yes, ever the shadows

Note: I would like to dedicate this poem especially to my fellow-blogger and friend, Tony Single who, like all artisans (including yours truly), must be a bit of a shadow-walker. Blessings to one and all!

New Venture . . . Today

Surely, we bear some fear with every new venture
Because the clincher is it could be a misadventure;
After all, we cannot see down the road and the load
To carry can end up being quite scary; what to do?
Forge on ahead with fidelity and prayer,
And ever look for what is bright and fair;
Expect the unexpected as a prospect for the future,
And remember: You are never alone,
Even when you’re chilled to the bone;
There is an Eye that sees and the Heart that cares;
There is One who never forsakes but close abides,
Who does not chide, but offers the helping Hand;
So with this in mind we unbind all our trepidation
And move forward into the unknown; into the new

Today is the Day

Yesterday is a stream already flowing into the ocean,
Tomorrow is but a dream still blowing in the wind,
But today, my friend, is the cream of life to be drunk
Without being sunk into despair in the affair of living;
Today is a moment of prayer, repair and the welfare
Of your soul, which can be a bowl of poison or good;
What do you choose? To gain thru your pain or lose?
. . .
Yesterday is a stream already flowing into the ocean,
Tomorrow is but a dream still blowing in the wind,
But today, my friend, today . . . today . . . this one day

Relief: The Lunatic’s Rave

Indeed, have ten thousand fallen down all around,
While I myself lie prostrate on blood-soaked ground;
One misstep following another, I fell without sound;
Darkness draws near ~ pain and suffering abound.

And, lo, does the deadly pestilence stalk at night,
And terror in the darkness that no man can fight!
Behold, the pale horseman with his quiver of plight,
Arrows striking the very sun to blacken all light!

Listen! Here is a mournful sound without harmony
Rising from unknown tombs in earth and sea!
Dead souls given voice in the council of eternity,
To clamour for justice denied heartless cruelty!

And now is this high refuge become my low grave?
And hope no longer lives there is Someone to save?
Must I, too, await relief but in death’s cold wave
When finally does Mercy silence the lunatic rave?

Note: Originally published sometime in the summer of 2012 and can also be found on the Slightly Poetic Slice of My Life page

Yesteryear

Yesteryear is somewhere I hold not dear,
And shed not one tear that I can only peer
Into my past – to cast but a quick glance –
And it does not last . . .
Oh, yes, there’re fond memories, I’m sure
But they do not serve to cure my dejection
And so my rejection of too much reflection
Comes with ease with ne’er ghostly figure
To tease, and no shade to rise up to please,
Nothing to freeze my soul in bygone years;
And tell me, what could be more charming,
If not alarming, for an avid pupil of history?
Ah! an invigorating story I love, so savory!
But really there’s not one bone of interest
To pick from my own,
Sown in the mundane . . .
So yesteryear is not dear but rather drear;
But, then, I hear it is medicine for the soul
To reflect, to recollect, and so it might be,
So, you see, I do reminisce in quietness;
No, I do not hate the past, so I meditate,
Yet this does not last very long;
After all, I belong here and now . . .
Yesteryear may be as near as one thought,
But reliving those days cannot be bought
With the world’s gold, not even one’s soul,
And why try? To want to live in yesteryear
Comes from fear of bowing here and now,
Turning ‘golden days’ into towers of power
Under which one cowers . . .
And this came to mind as I was pondering
Yesteryear

From the Vaults of the Past, Live Today

Flowered wreaths are laid on graves and flags are waved,
Precious photos are saved and placed in handsome albums,
As should be for you and me and all who are near and dear;
Old movies are played, prayers prayed, as memories fade,
And old books are read while nostalgic looks are shared
From the bed of the past to make something glorious last
For as long as possible… Ah! But is it not quite impossible
To resurrect what has gone, and do we not really suspect
That it is the present with which we dissent and the future
We rather resent as we recall only the pleasant of the past,
Of days gone by, focusing on the highs, ignoring the lows
Else they blow away our feelings in kneeling at the altar
Of history and the stories we have conjured in our minds
That bind our hearts to an idealism that ne’er existed?
Oh yes, to honor the dead is a golden banner of humanity,
As this helps us keep our sanity and guard against vanity;
But there is the danger that in fear and anger we simply
Desire to live and expire in the past rather than live
And fight now for what will last!
Yes, always remember the past…
No, do not dismember the present

Moonlight Shines Fine Light . . . Trying to Mount the Mount

When you do not know what the future holds,
Nor who holds the future, nor what unfolds;
Damp in your heart, when sun shines so cold,
And sick fog rolls in thick, your spirit to scold.

Moonlight shines fine light so bright, twirling and swirling in and out,
Dance the dance in fair flight tonight; haunting images swim about;
What does it count to slight man in fright, trying to mount the mount?

No, oh no, no longer anymore day by day;
It’s minute by minute; so many bills to pay;
It’s pain in every joint, muscle here to stay;
It’s the chronic crisis of living life in dismay.

Is there tonic for the suffering? Elixir for the urge?
Is there pill for the mind? Herb the soul to purge?
Candles burn too quick, wax flows in down-surge;
And all you want is to sing your own funeral durge.

Flames still flicker some hope to hope of promise dear,
Dear to the soul so drear, no life career; an end is near,
No voices call, and dreams fall with everything sincere,
Nothing left but blood, sweat and tears; does she hear?

Perchance it counts, after all, because this man is not ready yet;
Not ready to fold and run, but to place yet another bet!
.
.