Moments that fade

There are moments that spring to mind,
Distant memories
Of a time once ago;
That call us to tears or laughter.
Or perhaps to reveal
A silent, stolen smile from a lost moment.
Resonance of a simple note that strummed
In our heart the perfect chord

There are moments that leap out,
In inopportune flights of fancy.
A smile from a complete stranger,
Triggering recollection a familiar scent,
Etched in time and in soul;
A meaning lost to all but the beholder.
Resonating a simple note that stroked
Once in our souls the perfect chord.

Come such ebbing moments,
If only for the fleeting recollection
Of the begotten gains of a lost summer.
From a moment that was built
Upon another moment
In an endless cycle of forever more.
Truly the times are but moments that fade;
A once resounding perfection chord
Fading; a simple note no more...

- 28 September 2010

Finality

Winter woes in morning shine,
The fog of a misty blanket;
Covers the landscape
Like an uninvited vise,
That reminds of death
Amidst the cold icy fingers of
Finality

Nature who is the mother;
Once the serenade of warmth
And reason
Has abandoned the maternal touch
For a grip more persistent,
So that we may all take heed the knell of
Finality

Tis the nature of the beast.
When the warm calling goes unnoticed
It transforms in the indifference;
To a tone that cannot be overlooked.
A mother’s wrath awakened;
In the chilling reality of
Finality.

The mother that once soothed and cared
Raises her tranquil veil,
To reveal the withered breast
And the battered heart that lies beneath.
The unsteady pulse of the heart beat
Tired and wavering to that last shaken throb of
Finality.

Is it too late mother?
Or has the last feather been cast off?
The camel in its might has relented
And Atlas grows old under his wretched load
Can there be hope for redemption?
Or has the gong been set for its last sob of
Finality?

Neither a cry nor a moan belated
Seems to soothe the pained mother;
Gone cold in a reluctant revenge of her neglect.
Alas, the mother that once coddled and cajoled
Is of the temperance of wit’s end and
Finality.

But a mother a mother be
And cannot look beyond the dreams
Of her children nor leave them
Whence they plead for a second chance.
But the battered spirit is weak
And tired limbs ache to let go to
Finality

Perhaps already too late
Is where we stand in the equation;
A silent protest is all we can offer
Since a weakened mother may not revive
In her spirit of yester-bygones, but
Only ready to greet the peaceful resignation of
Finality

The rhythmic pulse of regret,
Reconciliation and reluctant realization
To the frailty of our circumstance
We are not too late!
We are too late?
Perhaps only just not too late for
Finality.

- 13 February 2010