Ah,the times in which we live,
Where the moments of calm seem all so short!
Even a simple poem to try and say,
Something to perhaps brighten another Seeker's day,
Seems just too time consuming,
Too much to ask us to give... After all, we live in a world where none seem happy!
Spirit-that etheristic cloud-which seems to haunt our dreams,
And instantly respond to our various schemes;
Demands more than a polite jesture of respect,
While we assemble our plots!
Spirit, shall not be denied!
Spirit, cares, and does not cast Lots!
The first poet who ever lived upon this mortal plain,
And had to deal with Life;
Knew far better than we, the strain,
Of Death, of Sorrow at the loss of a loved one who died
Of just those many simple things,
Which today seem all TOO simple to have even existed...
Upon that mortal plain.
...Such...terrible strain!
And, so it goes.
No one can know for sure the motivation for any poem
When it is read in Time!
A poem, you see, is a creation which is meant to be
Given to all who seek light...
In that...Special place...
That place between Space and Time;
Where the heart reigns supreme,
And the mind reels at the overwhelming influx of emotions...
Communications...messages...from one eternal seeker... unto
Another.
A poem...to cast light among the shadows of our lives,
And offer Hope and even Peace when it is needed most;
And lift our hearts and spirits above the daily turmoil
Of this outflung world...of oh,so many a forgotten outpost;
And feed us from the table of grace and peace...
Why, it's almost as if angels really do exist!
Can that be Santa Claus...checking His List?
(About author)
