Thursday, January 3, 2013

Of Ethereal Cups

Today, for all that it may lack
Or nevermore will be
Is a wee cup that we fill up
With living’s memory

Today, for better or for worse
We tread its tender path
Soon it will be a memory
Time’s precious aftermath

Today, before it slips away
To past’s eternity
May we employ peace, love and joy
Into its memory

Today will never dawn again
Softly it comes, to pass
Both good and ill has no re-fill
Within its hour glass

Today; a once in every life-time
As we fill up this ethereal cup
With living's memory

© Janet Martin

I read this poem this struck a chord.

What I Call Living... by Edgar A. Guest (one of my favorite poets ever)

The miser thinks he's living when he's hoarding up his gold;
The soldier calls it living when he's doing something bold;
The sailor thinks it living to be tossed upon the sea,
And upon this vital subject no two of us agree.
But I hold to the opinion, as I walk my way along,
That living's made of laughter and good-fellowship and song.
I wouldn't call it living always to be seeking gold,
To bank all the present gladness for the days when I'll be old.
I wouldn't call it living to spend all my strength for fame,
And forego the many pleasures which to-day are mine to claim.
I wouldn't for the splendor of the world set out to roam,
And forsake my laughing children and the peace I know at home
.Oh, the thing that I call living isn't gold or fame at all!
It's good-fellowship and sunshine, and it's roses by the wall;
It's evenings glad with music and a hearth fire that's ablaze,
And the joys which come to mortals in a thousand different ways.
It is laughter and contentment and the struggle for a goal;
It is everything that's needful in the shaping of a soul.

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