Hands From the Past

Hands from the past reaching out to us:

Ocher red, white, dark, brown,

Five-fingered, four-fingered, three-fingered,

Hand stencils sprayed on the wall,

Ocher mixed with spit, mixed with blood,

Blown through hollow bones;

Art as a plea for us to remember

Ourselves when we did not have faces.

Our words now are like hand stencils

That try to stamp eternity

On what we call our own

And brave our sense of time’s passing.

Now, while we still have time,

Let us make hand stencils of our own.

Let us live well and distill life

Into something that will outlast

Today’s disappointments, yesterday’s sorrows

And remind those who will come after us,

That we were here, that we struggled,

And like them we have loved life, nature, art,

And we have tried to claim beauty for our own.

Let our words be our hand stencils;

Let us spray them well on life,

That others may see them and understand

Not only us, not only our times,

But themselves, too.

PS: The image depicts 9,000-year-old hand stencils from the Cave of Hands in Patagonia.

Ode On Solitude (Modern Edition)

Man Relaxing on Chair Painting

Happy the man*, whose wish and care
A house or an apartment bound,
Content to breathe his native air,
In his own town.
Whose routine job, whose local stores
Supply his food and his attire,
Whose books in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.
Blest, who can unconcerned’dly find
Hours, days, and years slide soft away
In health of body, balanced bank account, and peace of mind;
Quiet by day,
Sound sleep by night; study and ease; leisure walks,
Together mix’d: sweet recreation.
And moderation, which most does please
With meditation.
Thus let me live, Facebookless, offline, unknown,
Thus unlamented let me die,
Steal from the world, and not a grave
Tell who I was or where I lie.

***

Continue reading “Ode On Solitude (Modern Edition)”

You In My Thoughts

Painting of a bench

When I walk through the russet park

On a carpet of dying leafs

And come upon a deserted bench

Sprinkled with dew drops and rotting at the edges,

That’s when I think of you.

Continue reading “You In My Thoughts”