Does it matter?

Does it matter, what
we think, or want, or
even do? In terms of
any plan life may have
for us, or are we just
like puppets on a stage,
with lines written, set
in time and stone, with
string being pulled by
something else, to make
us move in certain ways,
at certain times? Does
any of it really matter
beyond how we feel on
this stage called life,
and even then, does it
really matter and how
can we know what matters
and what does not, or
if the truth is that
everything matters and
nothing matters in that
paradox of existence?

Summer

Creep of warmth at dawn,
sucking away the last of a
cool night, huddling under
the rise of bright sun, so do

Summer days begin, and
wait, in slow heartbeats of
rising temperature; sodden
in their promise of a raging

day, where curtains will be
pulled to imprison darkness,
holding at bay the bright,
white, light from a burning

beating, brutal solar master;
as the hours pass in quiet
reflection, and dreams drift
on soothing, cool breezes.

Summer in the great South
Land, where huge wastes
of desert, reflect in pitiless
constancy, the searing heat.

https://dversepoets.com/2019/07/30/hot-time-in-ye-ole-pub-tonight/#comment-175068

to move

To move beyond the moment,
embrace the touch of time,
surrender to eternity; such
destiny defined. And yet

in seeming silences, I
wait and ponder why, the
moment demands leaving,
when staying is required.

To move beyond the moment
seems surely to be wise,
and yet the heart calls halt;
suggests I wait awhile.

This constant inner battle,
this tussle of the soul, oils
the cogs of sanity, leaves
madness at the side.

And then in whispered
minutes, the pull of life
ensures, that moving on
is destiny; to stay is not

allowed. For straggling
in the hem of days, are
stories to be told, brushed
clean by steady movement:

all doubt is now resolved. 

Time

Is there such a thing as
time; measuring out of
moments, where some
thing concrete is made

and holds fast, regard
less of whether we are
aware of it, or if we
are awake or sleeping?

Time can drag through
seeming eternity, or
vanish in an instant at
the moment of sleep.

Where does it go, and
did it ever exist when
its form and shape are
so unreliably existing?

Time mocks, consoles,
weeps with us and
rails against itself, in
endless, full motion.

And it is silent beyond
the slow ticking of its
heart, which beats in
rhythm with our own.

Reduced

We are reduced, brought
down into small places,
long ignored in the days
of youth, if indeed, ever

imagined. But time trims
and prunes inexorably, to
bring the minutiae of life
into our minds, in order

that the trivial, banal and
inconsequential, can be
known for what they
really are - the building

blocks of our being; the
atoms of our soul; the
threads offered for slow
weaving in allotted days.

Wintered

As the days draw tight
and darkening, calling
to the remnants of
light, to remain in

shadowed hope, so
does the season pass
and we are wintered;
cold soil beckons to

remaindered leaves,
sucking final songs
of warmth from a
mellowed sun, even

as we grieve for the
loss of what once
was known, and in
silence wait, for new

beginnings, which
have yet to push their
way through chilled
unforgiving memory.

Words

When there are no words
to convey, hold, nourish
the feelings, then, what
do we have, but lingering

emptiness and the sense
of being unfulfilled,
where grief sits sullen,
sodden, sorrowing and

cannot lift her skirts to
walk beyond the misery
of the moment....such
is the gift of words.