Fleeting Poems

Life is fleeting no doubt. 

Our moments are grieved by linear time and potholes on the road to nowhere. 

Time is our currency and is never enough.  We spend precious currency thinking we can buy more of  it somehow or some way. 

Moments in time of unfulfilled promises, missed conversations, affections withheld, or affections wasted. We silently sit on the side of the road, looking haggard and full-on angst hoping to be picked up and taken to our next stop. 

 Alas, we see relief in sight; as the preacher speaks of the eternal and not time. No taskmaster controlling  our every move. No schedule to keep no illusion of time to hoard. Spiritual language effuses radical longings for the unknown to be known.  

The entry to such timeless portal is our physical death and time as we know it ceases to exist, a high price to pay for the freedom we seek.  No doubt life is fleeting. All we have is poetry moments or poems– precious moments – make them yours.   

Morning dew settles on the fields  

Unmistakable scent of green grass burns my senses  

The flower appears in the horizon gracefully embracing the warmth of the day 

Sunshine rays frolic all around me, hues of amber and green illuminate the path to the blooming Orchid 

Majestic petals colored in white and purple haze, perfectly shaped. I am enchanted by her intense beauty adorning the space next to the ancient tree. 

Silently, I walk to the Orchid seeking to understand her journey from seed to lovesome flower 

As I approached her the hummingbird graces her petals and at the moment I realized her life changing power and I weep with joy.

Roaring engines, dirty hands, rags full of oil  

Spotless white shirt hunched over the hood  

Diesel and Gasoline smell permeates the shop 

The mad men deciphering the maniacal sounds of the metal monster 

I wait for commands to clean or pick up parts that will heal the beast 

My father the mechanic, a perfectionist with a bent on mechanical genius 

 Man with a thirst for fire water  

Fixing cars was his trade  

Raising a son was not always part of the trade.  

I saw the 65-mustang cherry red, pristine, all original and the driver looked like you and my eyes moisten with the longing to see you again  fixing cars.  

That was never our thing, but when you are a kid A Dad is like a God and cars are the chariots of his royal staff.  

Miss you Dad, miss looking at your facial expressions, when you seemed the happiest making engines roar like the howling winds of an F5 tornado.