Moments. Rare moments. Rare moments in our lives.
We live by these. The rest is all animal existence to forget.
Moments that have thrilled us or grilled us; these survive.
Time sticks to these and slips off all others, most others.
Moments when mother was more than any other.
Moments when father’s frowns killed all joy,
Moments when the realization dawned of the wealth in those frowns.
Moments when we first met, to forget what was or would be.
Moments when one got there and stood, a man in command.
When the boy in one evaporated; the man stood out proud.
Then the world seemed in one’s pockets, the world was me.
Granddad Time stood scorning, smiling with a knock-down-hammer.
Too proud to tolerate success for long. A bang here, a tang there.
The leveling moments that reduce life to nostalgia, when days smiled
And nights invited lustily. Moments make monuments of life, reduced
To pictures, of what was and never will be.
A life filled with moments that stand out. Refreshingly well done. I could see you in the lines because only your experience could be written this way, even though many experience the same things. Your memory lane is filled with good passage.
“The woman or man who is a poet, or fiction writer, or playwright, or all of these, is engaged constantly in a jazz ballet of vocabularies, passions, genders, histories, perspectives, death, love, and life. The music of revelation announces itself to
Share
Print
Save
Follow
Ron