The World is a Changing Place

Crinkled skin and cracked lips

Carved the face of a patient man.

A worn cardboard sign, hung around his travelled neck,

It read:

Time has passed me by and I have passed by it.

 

You could watch him for an hour

And while he seems painted by the past

The world walks by, falling, flowing and tumbling on:

Ready for the future, eager to move on.

 

He breathes, he sighs, he smells, he sees.

His senses are keen and have seen a hundred years

In the time it takes to smile.

 

But the time has come for him to walk;

The world is a changing place.

He breathes, he sighs, he smells, he sees.

But there is no time, no more.

 

Busi-ness

It is easy when you look at me to see a busy man
But the truth lies in between the constant flow
Of a non-stop calendar.
As a man distracted does not feel the pitfalls over which he stumbles.
As it is you who helps me find my feet
And let the circulation flow again
I can breathe and sigh and love
As we match each other’s steps
In the soft white sands of time.

Death’s Stare

When I look forward

I see the eyes of death pierce down

The narrowing stretch between I and he;

His mouth drooling as the scent of my anxiety

Touches his foul nostrils.

 

I am paralyzed with the eternal presence of his stare:

Where is the meaning if all we can do is wait?

But as I look down, the skull is not yet in my hands,

And my breath is still firmly in my lungs.

 

As the intensity grows too infinite,

I turn, using all the reason in my body

And face the fertile past:

My birth, my victories and my losses.

I smile,

As the hearth of my heart

Rekindles once more with the warmth of life.

 

I know, Death’s stare will never be the same again.

My Last Poem

What is the last poem that I’ll ever write?

Will it be at the hands

Of disinterest,

Or at the hands

Of death?

 

What will the subject be?

Love?

Philosophy?

Or both intwined?

 

If I were to become

Famous and lost in pages,

A hundred years down the line

Only for young academics to

Rekindle my lack of rhyme scheme

Would this be the last poem

– the last thought of mine –

To have resurrected life?

Transcendental Time

The world is a temporal place,

Buildings are built to crumble and fall

As their once great magnificence is lost to the wind.

Plants and trees wither away,

Once painted masterpieces burn in great fires,

Poems are lost and made wet in the rain.

What is to say that life follows suit?

We live and we die,

That’s it they say.

In the moment I say just three words to you,

Mi Anita,

The drain of time is plugged.

The emotion of love is not held to minutes

Or seconds,

Not to hands on a clock

It has happened, and for this,

It shall always be.