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


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!

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

Wrestling With Ghosts

Waking up with heavy heart
Past memories levy their taxes
Failures take axe to my soul
Regrets demand their toll
As I roll in tearful remorse
Over the course I took then . . .
In the past
But what of the present?
Forlorn under crescent moon
That illumines haunting images
And daunting challenges now
To be what I can no longer be,
And who will see and save me?
My shirt is wet from tears,
But do I cry for those I hurt,
Or is this more self-pity?
No, no little ditty of self-pity,
It is for the wreckage left behind
To which I’ve been blind for . . .
Oh God, forgive me! Relieve me!
Believe me when I say, ‘I’m sorry’
. . .
Last impressions from the past,
First thoughts brought by morning,
Warning for today not to go that way,
And I have learned by being burned,
But, oh, this heavy heart torn apart!
This heavy heart torn apart!


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

In the Temple of Tomorrow

All the world’s aflame, and everyone to blame,
In the Temple of Tomorrow;
And you borrow such insane pain on the Plain of Today,
Where the Slough of Yesterday is left behind
And in like kind, Tomorrow never does come,
But some offer sacrifice of praise in mental haze
And spiritual daze … in the Temple of Tomorrow.

Yes, there are those, too, who are bogged down
In the Slough of Yesterday, who blew away any future
Of hope long ago, so their song is another dirge,
And ever an urge to relive the past; their hearts
Never surge in the beauty of Today, yet may one day;
Who knows? Ah! But others await the kingdom come
Some day … In the Temple of Tomorrow.

Here there is no rest as the best of spirit is given
To liven what has not yet been born; torn from Today
To take hold of hope to make something, anything …
Tomorrow, tomorrow; and they borrow from the future
To nurture passing pleasures and transient treasures
For Today with no real content; they are so hell-bent
To worship in the Temple of Tomorrow.

Arise! Meet the present and greet this Day today!
Gone are all your yesterdays and tomorrow never comes;
In this moment find your atonement and enjoyment;
Bow no longer and cower not … in the Temple of Tomorrow!