Then and Now

Moon footprint

 

Four thousand million years or so ago

On, perhaps, a sunny day, maybe in June,

Or beneath the silver disk of Moon,

An odd molecule or two caught an idea

To make the slightest touch of life appear.

 

Molecules are thoughtless bits that tag

Each other in surprise or someways otherwise.

Events that day, anyway, no one can say.

Molecules can link and split, twirl and branch,

Twist in ways that can’t be missed, or just drift away.

 

But that most significant connection initiated events

Out of the iron rule of circumstance, without intents,

To demand that this Wednesday morning, eggs and toast,

A cup of coffee, microwaved, as preferred by most

Or, at least, by me, would provide sustenance

To initiate the imaginings of where and how I might be.

 

These things, of course, are never independent,

Unlinked in time to long chains of previouses,

Unlike radioactive decay which may, without intent,

In furious, spurious, energetic eruption fusses

Of speeding, subatomic flights of reconstruction

Twist succeeding fates in ways that no one susses.

 

Thus infringes pasts and pasts of pasts into currency,

A stone imprint of the foot of Tyrannosaurus Rex

Reflects a step of history towards some vague destination,

The spring of delight in Balanchine assault on gravity,

Wilder still, that human Lunar print to step onto a dusty satellite.

 

So then and now progress to when in steps beyond concepts

Into futurity where sweet and horrifying possibilities lie and lurk.

We walk across the ages blind, unknowing of what we find.

The architect of time erects, connects and razes with bare hints

Of what stays, what fades or what bridges into possibilities.

We each are hints to blow like mist to leave, perhaps, a scent

Of what may be meant.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Touching Finality

skull

The faint scent of death pervades

Latter days.

There are ways to wave away that trace.

Present time strikes one

Full in the face

With bouquets of touch and sound,

Surroundings bright with colors, light,

And even in a quiet night

The Moon can sooth to peaceful sleep.

But sleep itself can raise the care

That something threatens deep out there,

Barely discernible, it stirs,

A rip in time,

Discontinuity, and then,

And then, who knows what?

What squat frog of fate awaits?

What totality now lurks?

And so, awake, to watch

The ceiling lights of passing cars.

The marching troops of what had beens,

The avatars of what could be.

Until the weariness of empty sleep

Envelopes all concern

To swiftly endow

The yellow sun of morning now.

Another Day

 

Morning photo

Time calculates

With the smallest particles of moments.

My clock spits minutes

In its assault on my life.

They dust my floor with memories

That sparkle and whirl away

In the wind of necessities.

 

Each morning must I reassemble

This odd similarity

I recognize as myself.

Not quite the same fabrication

That flopped to bed

The night before.

The underwear, the socks and pants

The shirt and shoes

Complete the structure

Topped by the aging head, white hair

Smeared with a grin of completion

To sign the victory for another day

Of questionable enterprise.

Serendipitous

Sperm and egg

I breathe, I smile, I walk a mile,

I cook, I look, I sit a while.

Lots of things that can be done,

Can be a nuisance, can be fun,

But, professional, these are none.

Many ways there are to fuss

But always serendipitous

I watch the sky, I do fish fry,

I read the news and wonder why

People do what people do –

That puzzles me without clue.

Sometimes it’s habitual,

A funny kind of ritual.

Mostly for due recompense

For lots of time and little sense.

There is, of course the money thing

The chime of cash register’s ring.

Without cash all life would crash.

One must keep an eye on stash.

You’ve got to eat and sleep and fart

Plus, of course, there’s sex and art.

Some keep dogs, perhaps more,

Rarely, there’s a dinosaur.

Some sons-of-bitches like to kill,

Many settle for a pill,

But always there’s a way, a will

To have a say for time to spill.

But time just comes in discrete ways.

We’ve all got limits on our days.

A hundred years  – we most go poof.

It’s a short life on the hoof.

Towards the end, we start to wonder

Where the Hell has been our thunder?

Einstein and Napoleon

Thought little of simoleon.

What the hell, what the fuck!

When you’re dead what good’s a buck?

But then again, reputation frays.

Are there better ways to spend our days?

No need to stomp and scream and shout

If life gives franks and sour kraut.

Not many sperm make birth to Earth

To figure out what life is worth.

It’s quite a prize to get a peek

At a universe that’s quite unique.