Possible

The route we take is written,
no dearth of chances there,
what's possible is limited,
by natures individual, the

bulk of being long decided,
the stars do tweak the light,
but some pretense can drug
our minds, and challenge

who we are. It is in time
still teeming, the challenge
of our lives, we jump into
our being, and shock the

stories blind. For who we
are was long ago, the story
that we wrote, and sealed
in life material, on which

we make our notes. The
play of life is staged and
set, as we decreed and so,
each soul incarnates now:

we live so we may  know.

https://sundaywhirl.wordpress.com/2017/10/14/wordle-322/

The ground

I stood upon the ground where they had been,

among the fallen stones and dark timbers,

and dreamt of life as they had known it once;

now gone, all broken, dispossessed around,

as detritus and ruin of a home once loved.

So did my ancestors still speak through rubble

and whisper dreams in ever-spreading dust.

There was no trace of life as they had lived,

mementos gone and attributes of being, all

carried off, or broken where they stood by

driven days and yearning years, held up in

mortal months where lack of human hand

decreed, they could not last and hold their

shape, no matter how much one may wish.

Cobbled into being through the mind and

heart, scrabbled from the ebb and flow of 

dregs, imagined shape of something now

long disappeared, was all which could be

summoned from the screed past did fling

in casual summons at my feet; daring me

to bring back what was irrevocably lost.

Only in the whims and dreams of fancy

can we recreate our history, and even 

then it holds no true form beyond poor

imagining and futile yearning, for what

is gone is always gone, unless it lives

eternal in a place beyond this jigsaw of

material, and for that, there is no proof.

https://dversepoets.com/2017/10/12/chaucerian-stanza-or-rhyme-royal/

Chiselled

I chiselled at your image,
revealed the puzzle clear,
made luminous your heart,
left nothing else to fear.


Dumb were left the angels,
superior and wise,
lucid was my loving;
hollow were your smiles.


Foreign were the moments,
feckless were your aims;
drank the wine of sorrow,
saw the darkening stain.


There would be no winner,
once the die was cast,
drunk on sour misery;
mourn our time now past.

 

Feast

 

 

Feast of life does generate,

 the way to study time, and

 then to laugh and find escape,

 to sack the days not born.

 

The veins of soul lie empty,

 the Self no more than ghost,

torn the days of memory;

 heart's engine, broke and lost.

 

 So do the years then gather,

 rejoice in all that's been,

 call upon fate's angels,

 to close the gaps between.