The Presence of Today

We either seek to view the world today
through some past generation’s worn and tired lens,
or try to filter what is past and gone
with some new, modern sensibility.

In either case, the picture loses sense;
we only see with skewed perception what we like:
a world that suits our purposes as is,
or one that our reforming might make right.

And while we fight and scrape to prove our case,
what happens to the time that is?
The Now, the only time that is, is lost
and gone before we live its span.

What is the point of living in denial?
The world is what it is; each second’s span
is neither from the future or the past.
It slips away like water in your hand,

and your contention neither gives nor takes
a jot of weight to yesterday’s long gone
nor to tomorrow’s not yet been
if you neglect the presence of today.

24 JUL 2017

A Single Blink: triolet

A moment’s span is very little time;
a single blink and half of it is gone.
Not long enough to make ambition’s climb,
a moment’s span is very little time,
which makes its wasting quite a solemn crime.
On such small pegs, life’s hat is hung upon.
A moment’s span is very little time;
a single blink and half of it is gone.

07 JUN 2017

(Sub)urban Lawns: toddaid byr

The world is changed each day; each morning sun
undoes as it is born.
From yesterday it lets the seed we sow
grow into what it needs.
But what has come before is gone and past;
last summer’s fading lawn
becomes the mulch that feeds the fresh grass blades
that fade so soon from view.

07 JUL 2017

This is the Morning: gwawdodyn

This is the morning of the first day;
nothing much remains of yesterday
except some dust in the clay on the wheel,
a flew flecks of shadow in the gray.

This is the morning of moving on;
what happens now is already gone,
chaff on today’s mown lawn blown by a breeze
that has no memory of the dawn.

This is the morning of here and now;
in past soil turned under by the plow
its seeds take hold, somehow, and make their way.
No pause for reminisce is allowed.

This is the morning of the new day;
what can remain of yesterday,
except the faint scent of decay that hangs
above fragrant, new blooms as they sway?

This is the morning of what will be;
let all yesterday’s visions go free.
What good their subtlety to you today?
Past boldness provides no guarantee.

27 MAR 2017

The Wild Wind: droighneach

Believe me: there is nothing evident
found in the wild wind’s sad apology
that echoes the swift, mad accident
of an empirical chronology.

The sound careens off the walls and multiplies,
pale murmurs slipping along an endless cavity
where caught words glow and briefly shine, like fireflies,
then gently fade in obscurity.

02 MAR 2017