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Saturday, April 5, 2014


Approaching sunset now, the dawn
too many years behind. The night
waits, lingering behind the evening star.
It was noon a mere while ago,
brightly shining with hope,
plans made with future surety,
more time than dreams to fill it.
Time spent seems but trumpery
when placed beside time remaining,
too much wastage, squandered
could haves, elusive promises.
Five or seven friends remain, a thousand
cronies gone the way of fumes, still
time for eight or nine, likely no more.
Poems have always seemed like
words in flight, now more earthly,
too often murky, poets in high dudgeon,
even as they confuse sunset for the dawn.
Still, there’s work to do,
and time to do it.
Living in the past yields little that is good,
mostly excuses, redrafted memories and
rust-pitted trophies.
Future has a sense of promise, of mission,
too many maybe’s as well.
What’s left is now, today, this moment,
sunset, dawn and dark of night the same
gift of opportunity, like a poem, somewhere
between a dream and a nightmare.

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