Written by
Ogden Nash |
Unwillingly Miranda wakes,
Feels the sun with terror,
One unwilling step she takes,
Shuddering to the mirror.
Miranda in Miranda's sight
Is old and gray and dirty;
Twenty-nine she was last night;
This morning she is thirty.
Shining like the morning star,
Like the twilight shining,
Haunted by a calendar,
Miranda is a-pining.
Silly girl, silver girl,
Draw the mirror toward you;
Time who makes the years to whirl
Adorned as he adored you.
Time is timelessness for you;
Calendars for the human;
What's a year, or thirty, to
Loveliness made woman?
Oh, Night will not see thirty again,
Yet soft her wing, Miranda;
Pick up your glass and tell me, then--
How old is Spring, Miranda?
|
Written by
Victor Hugo |
Boaz, overcome with weariness, by torchlight
made his pallet on the threshing floor
where all day he had worked, and now he slept
among the bushels of threshed wheat.
The old man owned wheatfields and barley,
and though he was rich, he was still fair-minded.
No filth soured the sweetness of his well.
No hot iron of torture whitened in his forge.
His beard was silver as a brook in April.
He bound sheaves without the strain of hate
or envy.
He saw gleaners pass, and said,
Let handfuls of the fat ears fall to them.
The man's mind, clear of untoward feeling,
clothed itself in candor.
He wore clean robes.
His heaped granaries spilled over always
toward the poor, no less than public fountains.
Boaz did well by his workers and by kinsmen.
He was generous, and moderate.
Women held him
worthier than younger men, for youth is handsome,
but to him in his old age came greatness.
An old man, nearing his first source, may find
the timelessness beyond times of trouble.
And though fire burned in young men's eyes,
to Ruth the eyes of Boaz shone clear light.
|
Written by
Kahlil Gibran |
And an astronomer said, "Master, what of Time?"
And he answered:
You would measure time the measureless and the immeasurable.
You would adjust your conduct and even direct the course of your spirit according to hours and seasons.
Of time you would make a stream upon whose bank you would sit and watch its flowing.
Yet the timeless in you is aware of life's timelessness,
And knows that yesterday is but today's memory and tomorrow is today's dream.
And that that which sings and contemplates in you is still dwelling within the bounds of that first moment which scattered the stars into space.
Who among you does not feel that his power to love is boundless?
And yet who does not feel that very love, though boundless, encompassed within the centre of his being, and moving not form love thought to love thought, nor from love deeds to other love deeds?
And is not time even as love is, undivided and paceless?
But if in you thought you must measure time into seasons, let each season encircle all the other seasons,
And let today embrace the past with remembrance and the future with longing.
|
Written by
Rg Gregory |
certain creatures it seems are never seen
straight on - they occupy the corner of the eye
once sensed (a second look) they're gone
the damsel even more so than the dragon-fly
she's a tough cookie for all her slender flutters
huge eyes strong jaws belie her evanescence
the kind of female to leave love's lisps in tatters
don't get sucked in by her immaculate pretence
if she's a she - she's there not there so quickly
no time to check - a female whisper or in drag
mosquitoes daren't treat such presence slackly
a wispy whoosh - the poor sods are in the bag
satan's emissaries (the devil's darning needles)
mischief makers - tell lies they stitch you lip to lip
they're elusive (haunting) as the best of riddles
forcing you to sense the eternal as a blip
illusion change - stuff timelessness is made of
beauty allure - life's compulsive invitations
what's wanted's lost - it's always on the move
the damsel fly enraptures such predations
|
Written by
Rg Gregory |
i
i shall die yearning
a hand
reaching out to
a face that isn't there
a face
seeking a hand
a stone
leaving its mountain-
wall in a wind
anxious to be a bird
a bird
crying to be a wall
ii
north wales
the goat pisses
the hawk hangs
the mountain leans forward out of the mist
iii
on this hill
between the stone wind
and the wall of stones
i am a hollow
scooped out by the sun
my substance dropped
over the wall - another
loosened boulder
a plaything for grass
the present sits in
my mouth for shelter
till the sun leans on his spade
the grass throttles the clock
around me
the stone cottage flies away
the wall leaps downhill
the wind is a mountain
the sun becomes gold ore
timelessness deflates me
look mother
i have found a fossil
here are the marks
of its hands and feet
it must be millions of years old
my eyes are caves down to the sea
|
Written by
Rg Gregory |
peaches exude this thrall -
reminders of those luscious
whereabouts that lips
best find their precious sips
to cry let this be all
they lull so well endowed
with dreams of wanting flesh
who can resist their touch
not they who wishing much
sigh o you do me proud
and yield in fruitful dreams
to the nectars of delight
that peaches bosom forth
(no better biter’s worth)
or so the vision seems
till age sends suckers out
to tease such juice away
and longing’s hardened crust
admits a fraying trust
that o the joy’s run out
believe that if you will –
till death the sweetened flow
haunts lips the peaches kissed
embalms taste-buds so blessed
no timelessness can kill
where peaches nestle - hopes
cannot be pensioned off
they cluster down the ages
drop softened onto pages
libido fondly gropes
so peach (of all) impeaches
yearnings that lose their lustre
yet stir goodbyes to house
remnants of lust’s carouse
(glow of the heart’s far reaches)
|