Reflections In Poetry

We ne'er can hie to yesterday

Tho' were there once

cannot return

in journeyed time except to dream

in memory's translucent urn.

We wait, impatient pilgrims for

the voyage to

our tomorrow.

Yet time's swift hand, in disregard,

touched our transience in sorrow,

We share — and yet we are alone

in pain, in joy,

in learning. So

our heirs, our friends, our teachers wait

as strangers in another land.

We passed but once...cannot return

to things that were.

And yet we band

in fantasy. Our souls are bound

to other times they understand.

A musing in my idle while

I tripped upon the queerest thought

and anchored to another age

a thousand years ago

Where was my soul when fate did smile

upon those times my dreaming sought?

Was it not captive-in a page

of hist'ry's libretto?

The world spun 'round before I came

ten thousand thousand times and more

And countless, nameless faces bred

the same strange feeling too.

And in a thousand years this game

will still be played by minds. I'm sure;

for man's spare time is often wed

to this reflective view.

This fragile carriage trembles at such force

...yet gentle wind...of yestertime

that blows through memory's most distant course

and wakens those old visions tucked away.

Time's catalogue's but web and dust

brush'd harshly to extract mirage's play

then tease the senses and confound the soul

to thus believe it can revive

the loosened spirit of one past moment's hold.