Saturday, August 31, 2019

In the Western Hills ...a poem

For my friend who has painted many wonderful images...a word picture
for Daria…

In the Western Hills

The road rises
through gullies
edged with wild seed flowers
Queen Anne’s Lace
bobs high on slender stems 

Atop the rise, on both sides
Black cows graze in golden grass.
Yellow headed daisies 
poke through the white lace umbels
Sunshine in a sea of clouds. 

August 2019

painting by Daria Shachmat

Monday, January 14, 2019

Today, while it is Yet so Called

Yes.  Pressing on. 
One step at a time. 
“At a time.”
The morning routine is fraught with awareness of time.

How often is time noted by mortals as “fleeting”?

Youth, at play, absorbed in doing-exploring-being, does not take note of time.

Those of us older than a child,  those who’ve passed into the realm of self consciousness, also can dwell in deeply immersed doing, but in retrospect are often aware…“Time got away from me.”  

Or, did I get away from time? 

So much time does get away, and then we splash in pools of memories, murky little puddles though they may be.

I have muddled in my own and others' memories at near expert level, looking for that jigsawed piece that could  finish the puzzle laid out on today’s flat surface.  What could -should -would such completion mean for tomorrow? 

But fragments of time gathered again, like crumbs of bread brought back to the baskets after all have been fed and are satisfied, speaks not only of brokenness but of the whole always fragrant and new. 

The invitation is ever emblazoned on the morning: ”, while it is yet called today...”