Get Your Premium Membership

Read Garden Poems Online

NextLast
 

The Drums of Time -- Exalted

The ceaseless beating of a drum,
fast marks the days ‘til we are done.
Our time will come, our time will come.

Listen, listen, can you hear it?
Growing louder as you near it,
as men of courage, cowering, fear it.

A distant, daunting, haunting hum,
vibrations of a tympanum,
of time to come, of time to come.

Strings of the cosmic tympanum,
vibrating ‘branes as they are strum,
keep perfect time ‘til we are done.

Drum beats of infinite duration,
a cosmic tintinnabulation,
God’s multiversal modulation.

The big bang rings with regularity,
waves wrung from frozen singularity,
portending time’s peculiarity.

Whose ripples roll through space-time fabric,
with tragic metronomic magic,
transmitting energetic tantric.

In resonance the yogis “om,”
harmonics of the cosmic thrum,
that marks our days ‘til we are done.

While poets and the prophets pray,
that they can find a simple way
to understand and then convey:

Blake wrote with a vision, somber, sour,
of “Eternity in just one hour.”
Just long enough to smell a flower,
before the beasts of time devour.

While Alice, through the mirror, beckoned:
“Why can’t you wait for just one second
for all infinity to reckon?
Do be careful what you wish for, Rabbit,
for impatience is a bad, bad habit.”

And in the “Garden of the Forking Paths,”
decisions had their aftermaths,
in a multiverse of righteous wrath.

For this universe could not be queerer
than rogue reflections in a mirror:

A child walks in ten thousand rooms,
and looks into a mirror.
In each his future self there looms,
as death creeps ever nearer.

Oh Lord, I know that child too well,
in the mirrors in my mind.
For I am that impatient child,
in a universe parallel.

All the hopes and dreams and trepidation
of king’s and cobbler’s aspiration,
and the despot’s deeds of desperation,
end at the same dark destination.

For all that is and all that was,
and all that ever will unfold,
all in accord with cosmic laws,
displayed before our eyes, behold!

There, in the stars, it all began,
now turn around and you are old.
Go, smell the flowers while you can,
soon you’ll be buried in the cold.

For the ceaseless beating of a drum,
fast marks the days ‘til we are done.
Our time will come, our time will come.

Exalted word summary:

Tympanum – drum word itself is rhythmic.
Tintinnabulation – Rhythmic nod to E.A. Poe
Multiversal – astro theory-part of theme
Metronomic – I hated metronomes trying to learn piano
Tantric –  a segue to “om.”

Copyright © Eric Cohen

NextLast