On the wall, keeper of time,
The hands of truth continue to wind.
It ticks with the steady beat of my heart—
A loud, continuous nudge,
A reminder: "Remember you must die."
The hands of a clock mirror our life.
With each swing of the pendulum,
A little less time.
Each second, a moment closer to demise,
As the sun sinks low in the western sky.
Fear not your shadow; accept the night.
The clock keeps winding,
As the daylight turns to night—
With each tick, clarity speaks softly
Purpose shines brightest just before midnight
As time fades away-
Embrace the fallen night
Tick-tock.
Tick-tock.
Come to me...
Even in whispered thoughts that come to not.
On the trail of ashes scattered at every stop.
In the wake of unborn indigo dreams.
In the last drops of a dying stream.
With a soft reply and ardent eyes.
And a silhouette that unveils your eyes.
The sweet song of the Finch,
awoke me from my sleep.
From the open window, the wind
sent me sweet whispers of the leaves.
The poplar had blossomed during the night.
While the pavement was covered
by a snowy blanket of soft flowers.
The air was imbued with fragrances of revival and reincarnation.
Wholeheartedly I welcomed
the Spring ...
©?BesaD.
4/2004
Lived in a loop hole for too long
Days fly by like the puff of a dandelion
Can't remember what you told me that night
All I remember is how your eyes shimmer
Life is useless, we all die
Born to find an ending of this short movie
I always thought I was looking for a perfect end roll
But you make me feel like one of the scenes you wrote
Picturing every frame as time flow
Death, the reason why I used to wake up
Till I found a meaning
To breathe to smile to cry to frown
I open my eyes to see,
And I see you, I see my life
Radiating around your soul
Write a beautiful Carpe Diem Poem Poetry Contest
Sponsered by: Constance La France
Never freak out when everything goes wrong:
that won’t last long.
Don’t strut your stuff when you’ve raked in a hefty pot:
you’re not so hot.
Whether your life has been a living hell
that Dante couldn’t tell,
or if you’ve basked in the best of everything
the world can bring,
life’s a balancing act. I’ll tell you why:
you’re going to die,
like it or not, so you might as well have fun
before you’re done.
Sip the champagne, buy paintings, sail a yacht,
spend what you’ve got.
Every clock is a time bomb: there’s no way to know
when it will blow.
The mint DeLorean, the Pacific Heights flat,
even your pedigreed cat,
it all ends up, whatever you did,
with your slacker kid.
The trust fund brat and the boy who grew up in a dump
hold hands and jump
into the pit we’re herded toward like cattle.
You hear that rattle?
The gods are shaking your dice: the next sunrise
may be snake eyes.
-------------------------------------------------------
36, and I’m grateful to be alive. Still in the back of my mind Memento mori , “Remember that you will die”. So today I will do and not try. I will let go of the illusion that I can control every outcome because that’s the ill man’s delusional idea of how to manipulate time. Detach from the illusion of control. Just understand the future does not exist in this moment. Here and now is all we know. No matter how tightly you hold on, things will find a way to go . If everything was certain and nothing ever changed, life would be a stagnant body of water no Currents to shift its way. What a boring existence for the being’s part to play. We were already dying the day we were formed because time is not afraid. It existed before and will after the day the last human remains. So the celebration of another three hundred and sixty-five days has a feeling of accomplishment for another trip around the sun my skin sack has made. What is future but a mere wish, a hopeful gift , we should all be grateful if we get. I am alive now, but I remember we die, so I won’t waste breath on wishing for endless time. So here’s to 36, finally loving to be alive.
Phases of Moon on inscription
round the Earth on revolution
will be marvelous memento .
Just a simple manifesto.
Moon is our nearest neighbour.
Closest companion of ours.
It awakes inquisitiveness
about Universal vastness.
extending curiosity
to seek human identity .
Search for Cosmic explantion
since start of civilization.
Attraction of Moon from the Earth
continues from humans' birth.
Event of human Moon landing !
The Great Grand Success : Outstanding.
Memento to leave, we deserve -
' Phases of Moon' - as Earth observes.
Leave the ground to fly upward forever
a quintillion atoms blasting astray
It’s April 20, Crack open an Easter egg
be careful not to drop, if a Fabergé
Celebrate Apollo 16, NASA’s high point
also light a candle down Columbine way
Luna doesn’t judge beyond her influence
so can’t be complicit in the price we pay
Deepwater horizon, fades into distance
not to mention some Dictator’s birthday
What marks a memento of lasting impact?
recurring dates in an almanac of ricochets?
Every once in a phase, flies by April 20
she turns her face, but cannot look away.
I’d leave a small cigar box, cracked, showing faint splinters,
buried where no one can touch it or twist it.
Inside: a music amp shaped like my ribcage,
wound with the ache of fifteen years
spent trying to be softer than the world allowed.
A torn page from a notebook no one read,
scribbled with dreams I wasn’t brave enough to say aloud.
A necklace I never wore, too scared it meant I mattered.
A mirror that only shows you what you’ve hidden
when your hands are shaking too much to lie.
Some nights, I wish I could vanish without being gone.
But this box stays, proof I felt too much,
loved without language, begged for quiet in my mind.
Even here, far from Earth, I am still trying
to be more than the weight of my own silence.
Lunar alabaster
gleams beneath the void
The infant’s mind is carved in stone
Neural patterns branch like frost
across the barren surface
Face recognition
etched in marble relief
The first spark of knowing
Sound waves frozen into rings
echo mother's silent song
Small fingertip grooves
map first touch sensation
then the human footprints vanish, art remains
Soon, I will journey to the middle of the moon,
There, I will proudly place a memento with flair,
Fine sculpture shaped for reduced-gravity design,
One like proud Lady Liberty, facing the sun.
Like a bright beacon blazing in starkness, a spike,
Soaring melodies of beauty gently pouring,
From a breath of fresh air deaf to bees’ noisy hum,
Bold, elegant masterpiece dipped in crocks of gold.
Steady for the frozen silence of moon’s eddy,
That unyielding oak that confines winds to the mat.
Carved to freeze time, for history not to be starved,
Set in stone, clothed in a bright future free from threat—
Sweet treasure that no storm will ever dare unseat.
I blow smoke of dreams to daffodil streams,
beneath the sky, engrossed in love’s last sigh,
while this heart quivers, drunk on astral fever,
in the kohl-lined arms of the cold midnight,
kissing my soul in silver slivers…
O velveteen warrior, allow my gaze to trace lifelines~
sailing interstellar seas of electric stars
wrapped in whimsical wisps,
to leave our closing phrase on the lips of moon-haze,
as I breathe the silk of Luna’s wistful breeze~
drawn from the rosy dusk of his restless repose...
And this pearl ~ the nebulous clarity ~
emblazoned in pixelated poetry,
shall be the timeless spark of twin flames,
amidst the pull of bruised-blue silence…
The Moomagatta is very heavy.
And being the strongest astronaut around,
I knew, for Earth's sake, I had to be ready.
Not a month later on the powdery surface I touched down.
The Moomagatta and me bounded downward in a spring-like pace
Memories of moving a piano downstairs back on Earth flashed across my mind.
Contrarily the Moomagatta had mass but no weight out here in space.
Like a massive cardboard box it was cumbersome, nix the physical grind.
Now to stake the Moomagatta in at the target location...
Peeking at my lunar map showed me 50 feet away from the designated spot.
Once there I raised the Moomagatta above my head with zero deliberation.
It was then the Moomagatta turned to me and said, "this is not the Mariot!"
A mate of Musk, I’m told I’m going soon
(if NASA still exists, this side of June):
the lack of oxygen might make me swoon
- my rear end is as puckered as a prune!
I feel I ought to leave a happy tune,
an album by somebody who can croon.
That swallows effort, warbled by Pat Boone,
or Herman’s Hermits leader, Peter Noone?
Perhaps a piece of marble, nicely-hewn?
Amid the regolith, randomly strewn,
A DVD by National Lampoon?
The one with David Bowie – what’s it – Dune?
The Brooke Shields epic movie, “Blue Lagoon”?
That stoned director (Stone) gave us “Platoon” –
or how about “Five Weeks in a Balloon”?
In the infinite vacuum, where the moon was born,
I place a silver canvas, that is softly adorned,
From dreams of starlight, and whispers of dust,
An ancient clock, showing its age with rust,
Its hands like shadows, still yet they turn,
Marking the time, that is no longer my concern.
There stands a solitary tree, sculpted in stone,
Rooted in absence, yet never felt alone,
Its leaves are the mirrors, reflecting our past,
Sharing radiant stories, that are forever to last,
As astronauts linger beneath the serene scene,
With hopes that their spirit will still be seen.
This memento left here, in its lunar embrace,
A testament forged in the void of space.
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