Sometimes the music of Past seems to play loudest as we peer toward Future
‘Perhaps’ we say; skies clap with Dawn
Time's Maestro primed with wait-and-see
Moves a chimerical baton
As future turns to history
Don’t try to grip the haste of it
But savor each note as it spills
And stuns us with the taste of it
That runs us through with thrills and ills
…to waken, break in, heal the heart
And make us reel beneath the thrall
Of common-colored works of art
Making muse-icians of us all
We house in cages clothed in skin
The music-sheets of season-death
While ballads from veiled violins
Turn our heads and steal our breath
...where we are torn twixt sit or climb
Borne on a thousand melodies
That course with the sheer force of Time
Casting eighth-notes to memories
© Janet Martin
Below is the original version of the above poem;
funny how changing one word or line can birth a complete over-haul:)
Below is the original version of the above poem;
funny how changing one word or line can birth a complete over-haul:)
‘Perhaps’ we say; time claps its hands
Perhaps and someday’s wait-and-see
Unravels future’s foreign lands
To have and hold, then history
Don’t try to grip the haste of it
Savor the bit-by-bit that spills
And stuns us with the taste of it
That runs us through with thrills and ills
…to break and heal the human heart
And make us reel beneath a thrall
Where tug-of-war-like works of art
Makes mem’ry misers of us all
We house in cages clothed in skin
The diaries of seasons spent
And hardly know where to begin
Always caught between came and went
Where we are discontent to sit
Too long with nothing much to do
Yet drawn by the sheer force of it
To linger and drink in the view
© Janet Martin
