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Karen Rivello Poem
Time…
I see that time has spoken by the shadows of the light, though the changing of the seasons brings me more than just the night; and the night brings more than shadows as it creeps slowly ‘ore my door, for nothing holds back time as it steals the soul I bore.
I want not to be discouraged with what time has sent to me, but ‘ere to be searching what it hides within its plea. While both the wicked and the good stand equal in their place, time is ‘ere the master with none to steal its place.
For time cannot be captured by the hands who seek it out, to command its ceaseless wanderings without a sense of doubt; yet time is ‘ere to change as ‘oft the winds do blow, sending one and all to fill their graves while itself does yet to grow.
The desire is ever endless to those who think they can; for to toy with one’s own future was not given ‘ore to man. To what end does desire cease when destruction is its friend, the grave will claim its destiny as is the silent end.
The aged hand still works the day while looking on with care, hoping that the future is still able to forebear. The simple glimpse within the veil leads us ‘ere to venture on, with promises to stay our course until our final dawn.
Time is ne’er to be captured like an image in our mind, but pushing ‘ere onward until the end…of Time
Copyright © Karen Rivello | Year Posted 2020
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Karen Rivello Poem
GLIMPSES
The newness is precious, even perfect, as the touch is smooth.
Unravaged yet by time, supple, yet genuinely awkward.
Eagerly grasping, wanting, playing too, yet always learning.
Learning, that pain is sometimes a part of the growing, yet necessary; a sting.
I take for granted the youth and strength of each given member, until…
My eyes behold the necessity of them, taking for granted the frailty.
Years of service, use, and abuse, but always working, little time for play now.
I notice them more often, changing with time, it becomes more prevalent; dark spots.
The newness has worn off; the supple smoothness has been replaced.
Scars now grace the surface and tell of a far different dream than imagined.
Glimpses of a life that has somehow slipped by, without a thought, but with many cares.
Memories that now strain to find solace in actions once performed, but no longer with grace, or ease.
I used to stare, wondering at the love and duties performed by the one who’d gone before me.
Now I stare in amazement, aged and wrinkled with time and duty, scars and years of service telling their own story.
They delivered instructions, discipline, love and hugs, security, protection, and many things forgotten.
They’ve held others, in love, and in safety, in friendship, and in death, and they have also struck out in anger.
I stare down in wonder, yet no longer my mother’s hands, but my very own, nearing the end of their journey.
I wonder; how did I get here so fast? How did the years slip by without my notice?
Whether long or short, good or bad, hands are the longest and purest glimpse at any given life
Copyright © Karen Rivello | Year Posted 2020
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Karen Rivello Poem
Time...After Time
We only see thru the mirror but dimly, though there will come a day when we will see clear the road before us, but not this day.
We run, we plan, we win, we lose, and curse time for never giving us enough of itself…but it never gave us less.
Considering none to be superior to its grip, it moves along in rhythm, dreaming, scheming, stealing, and giving. Whispering ‘Youth is fleeting’ or so it’s been said, but is not time also that is ill spent?
It whispers quietly in our youth, laughing at the pace in which we live; obscure to reason. Yet it screams within itself the warning that too soon for some the hands will stop.
Time is elusive, yet ever present, demanding, yet forgiving, sometimes, ere’ to repeat itself to damnation.
We have run the same road over and over, repeating the ill choices and reaping the ill caused.
Yet one should ponder this; what would be the consequences if one were to possess the ability to capture it? To see its path and direct it, leading it to its place with care and purpose as the tamer leads the lion, or so tries. And yet the lion’s jaws are ever waiting to free itself from the burden of the one wielding the whip.
What impact would it have on those unfortunate enough to get swept into his grasp? The devious and evil thoughts soon desired would only be a wisp away, lust fulfilling lust. Lives manipulated into painful roads that bring anguish, negating the desires of those who take their own steps.
To what end does this desire cease? Destruction is its only friend, and the grave its destiny, and yet it still repeats…time after time.
Copyright © Karen Rivello | Year Posted 2020
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