Who has said to death,
Go and leave me
For a season.
Let me rest easy.
You are a shirt
Blue and white
Or black
That will go
to Goodwill;
You are
wrinkled papers
and other things
Folded waiting
in the pockets
of time;
And we must make a
New start in
This latter time,
We must have the patience,
And be willing to say :
Leave me for
a season,
As a coursing
Resolute
Heart,
fresh in new thought.
Like a one way train
On a one way track
We’re not likely ever coming back.
Wonder if we ever will
And who knows
just where
We’re going now ?
We’ll only know when we
Arrive
We’ll just
Sit still and stare
And wonder why
and where we are
and whether
we will stay alive
Like a one way train
On a one way track
We’re likely not ever coming back.
Wonder if we ever will?
We’ll just sit there
ever silent
Still
Wondering where we are.
And why?
Are there answers that
Will fill the gap?
Are there answers to the
why and where on this cosmic map?
It’s not likely
so we just sit there wondering still
Wondering where
we’re at and listening to
the whistle shrill
Like a one way train
On a one way track
We’re likely not ever coming back.
Wonder if we ever will?
I wonder if we ever will?
The boatman’s black hair
has grown long
And his beard a peppered grey
His body has grown thin and older
But he still plays
His oar turned mandolin
and keeps his many golden secrets
as he sits and moves across the
shore.
Compose poetry
In a language of flowers
Each Coloured Petal
A fragile,
Delicate stroke ;
Bouquet sent
A faint scent of lily,
A hint of Gardenia,
A love of soul
ever present;
A pure and hidden secret
Beyond life.
Hemingway
In a toque and white
Beard
Doing pantomimes
In the air, looking up
And smiling;
He’s gone beyond
Even the simplest
Of words …
To meaning,
On Mother’s day
The boatman
Sits peacefully
Cross legged
On the shore,
Strumming
Strings
Looking both
Left and right
with his
Golden eyes
Aflame.
The boatman ‘s
Eyes in fact
are sparkling
Once again ;
no longer dark.
It was an intentional
And wholehearted act
of charity.
PWChaltas 