Time

Time will wander through the realms of possibility and dreams,
as if it could be held and known beyond what it does seem,
and yet ephemeral and wraith-like it still surely flows;
determined to be free, beyond what mind can ever know.

If only we could pin it down, despite the death-like struggle,
to hold it then in place, displayed, revealed for every trouble,
that focus could then study, dissect and so reach understanding;
life could take on form, respond to careful, steady planning.

But like the moth, captured and pinned so purely on the board,
truth then is lost, the substance shrivelled, reality transformed,
in ways which make impossible to then divine in any shape,
the nature, heart and soul from which it seeks to then create.

Ephemeral and flimsy, impermanent,  there is no lasting grip,
where any touch destroys, lingers as dust upon thought's fingertip,
detached from feeble wings of  minutes, days, months and years;
marking death in ticking moments as each Now then disappears.

Chariot

Beasts divide
in tortured flight,
the chariot is lost,
with reason
strewn upon the
ground; so breaks
all crucial trust.

Unfinished

There is no place
in mortal world
where something
can be finished;
complete, all done,
locked into place,
where nothing can
be changed, added,
or re-worked,
except where death
has laid a claim,
taken hold, reduced,
removed - and yet,
that power is only
in this the material
world,  but even here,
as death transforms,
something new
begins, and  in
that realm where
time does not
exist, and all is
possible, there is
no end and so all
which is and always
will be, remains
unfinished, and....

http://margoroby.com/2014/06/03/poem-tryouts-finish-it/

Seeds

Spring sown seeds in silent shower,
skip past rolling day, touching wings
as new-born dreams carry them away.
Drawing breath and flinging free
they cling to future's tail
and ride the currents carelessly
from tree to fertile grave.

http://dversepoets.com/2014/06/03/poetics-seeding/

Sunflower

The sun compressed,
released, engaged
in perfect form of flower;
bright, petalled caress.

Sorting

It feels as if my mind is sorting
through drawers of memories,
and racks of distant days, which
hang, in darkened places where
doors no longer close properly,
and keys, hang, perilously in
rusted, broken locks, waiting for
that moment when the last, slow
breath will bring them all down;
a crumbling into the eternal now,
where form cannot be folded, or
stored, and there is nothing which
can be neatly hung, or kept hidden;
as the pungent camphor of hope,
dissolves in deliquescent grace.

What I would like to write to poetry editors along with my submission.....

I offer you my poetry to read. Your acceptance or approval would be pleasant, indeed useful, but neither is indicative of any worth, or constitutes a reflection on me or on my work.

 If you don't like it that does not make it inferior or bad or unworthy, it just means it is not to your taste, at least at this point in time, because your taste results from many sources, including what which your peers and the world of poetry which you inhabit, deem to be 'good.'

My work will either 'speak to you' or it will not and that will be regardless of how much you 'like' what I have said and how I have submitted. We both know that the how to submit rules are meaningless where there is appreciation.

We also both know from experience that success and talent are not synonymous and that fate, fashion, circumstance and dumb luck all play a part in how a submission is received.

Thanks for your time.