A life, my life, all life
But a groove in the sand
Made with a gentle hand
The sand within a universe
Drawn by a snail in the wild
With the wisdom of a child
The life makes its mark
The crooked line is stark
In that vast grand expanse
The universe to enhance
Sadness and gladness
Frustration and hope
Vain desire and holy longing
Base envy and gnawing greed
These are the rough threads
Entwined within life’s rope
Then there is time, the river
The river empties into the sea
The tide erases the life line
Puff, there is nothing left of me
Only what we have left behind
A life lived, a spirit, a memory
A life once lived, now is no more
A drawn line gone from the shore
The soul, the spirit, makes its way
Depending on what it had to say
To find within the oyster, the pearl
In that deeper, impenetrable world
A line in the sand erased by the tide
Memory takes wing on its final ride
Each new generation makes its own mark which is subject to change when the tide turns, "Memory takes wing on its final ride" but since we're flying, I'll tell that bird to keep going! 'Enjoyed.
Time and tide, sand and memories, are the building blocks of timeless poetry. You have woven a tapestry of strength, hope, charm, and promise. Well done.
Your poetry tends towards the end of life more and more. In this case I see the starkness of the desert as a sea of sand, overarched by a sea of stars. This makes everything more spiritual.
Everything flows to the sea to be rebirthed like the water that supplies the river with flow.
For as long as one is remembered, their existence lives on. Unfortunately, for most of us, that only lasts for a generation or two, and then we're lost to obscurity.
Beautiful ode to life and death. Throughout, you managed to keep the reality of death as a positive part of life. Extraordinary. (BTW, did you mean "grove" or "groove?"
Although I love this line . . . "A drawn line gone from the shore," I maintain, as did you, we are never quite "gone." Even the mildest human who hardly ever ventures into life's complex social order, he/she leaves memories. And memories keep such a person alive in however many life's he has touch.
A further collection of poems, many from years in the Middle East, but also the California San Francisco and Central Coast areas (Santa Cruz, Carmel, Big Sur, Berkeley, etc.).
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Love ya!
Jane
Everything flows to the sea to be rebirthed like the water that supplies the river with flow.
Ron