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Odin Roark

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  Existence
by Odin Roark
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
Rated "PG13" by the Author.

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Recent poems by Odin Roark
•  Love's Trial
•  Empty Closets
•  A Scream's Echo
•  Gotta Play the Game
•  A Father's Legacy
•  Fathering Trust
•  Window Teacher
•  Dream-Blisters
•  Nomadic Treasure
•  Winter Cabin Reality
•  One's Lesser Twin
•  Dogging the Walk
•  Poets Escape
•  Shadow of Ignorance
           >> View all 506


As my own time passes behind me, I see only new time ahead of me.


Existence

 

Something dies

And something will yet be born

 

Conceit knows well its curse

Mommy’s little self-proclaimed king

Princess

Angel

 

Even so

 

Life patiently waits

Knowing its iterations

But weigh stations

Of compliance

Respites earned

 

Time’s infinite wonder

Knows only to continue

Its heroic purpose

The clock’s perpetual movement

The grand circle of circles

Measuring the dust we once were

Transporting anew

Today’s chameleon

Perhaps a beetle’s mantel

A simpler life divined

For now

 

How existence plays out

Remains the chess game

Where check mate is unknown

Where strategized simplicity

Carries forth the endless game

Winners and losers

But one

Save the black and white

Inventions of man

 

Until

 

The game itself

Becomes a passenger

Time’s circling bend

The warping vortex of focus

Always begins again

 

Even as digital time pounds its chest

The sundial’s smile

Remains hidden

In eclipsed movement

Conscious it will be alight

Eventually

 

Ever so slow

So patient

Remains Time

 

The eternal shadow

Coming and going

Peaceably

Knowing only

Its own inevitability

 

Time is what it is

And we…

 

We are what we’ll become

Even as life’s folly

Holds it can outrun its destiny

Its next unfolding iteration

 

 




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Reviewed by Diana Legun 11/5/2012
This unfolds for me like a cosmic palm-reading. It makes sense what Richard pointed out about "We are what we'll become" - - implying no 'change;' but I challenge that angle with the concept that the iterations of which this poem speaks are but 'versions of the unchangeable one-ness,' the chameleon remains a chameleon, only different colors. "....its iterations/But weigh stations." A remarkable two lines of this poem, for me are: "The game itself/Becomes a passenger." Really like that. !~! Diana
Reviewed by Mr. Ed 10/24/2012
Time is what it is, and we are what we'll become.

Sadly powerful, my friend.
Reviewed by Ronald Hull 10/23/2012
All creatures here are destined to die, but life goes on. Life always goes on even if it has to change direction. Deep thoughts expressed.

Ron
Reviewed by richard cederberg 10/23/2012
A heart's lament in this. Time passing behind you, and only seeing new time ahead, is an interesting cogitation. A more or less prescribed look at future possibilities.

I'm thinking - based theoretically on the fact that the only knowledge we have is what we've already experienced - that if one has not yet attained their goals, or success, in past attempts, time allows us to continue trying despite what negative programming we've been interpenetrated with from all supposed past failures.

This phrase - "We are what we’ll become" - seems to anticipate a continuation of the same. Based on what I perceive as an incompleteness, or something still yearned for, in the writers life, I would say: "We are becoming what we'll be" lends itself better to the hopefulness (I sense) woven into the subtext of this philosophical piece. Enjoyed this construct, Odinsan. it made me think. Take heart - there are positive things happening in your life that you have no knowledge of yet. Peace...
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