Just a short entry this time. I haven’t written a poem in years, so here’s something unusual. Be gentle, because I haven’t the foggiest idea how to judge its worth, except to throw it on here to be read. There’s definitely a bit of e e cummings in it, and a nod to Robert Frost. Beyond that, I guess (and hope) it speaks for itself.
“Here to Then”
We are not the fallen hopes,
The great regrets and rocky slopes
Of everything we could have done:
The drink undrunk, the race unwon.
We are not the sorrows deep,
The miles to go before we sleep
That glitter on the edge of night,
Always beyond us, pins of light–
Nor all the things, both great and small,
That bother us now, then not at all.
We are the hopes we birth with talk:
The voices of many (a timeless walk
That leads us through from here to then,
And brings quick with us an end to when).
We are the names we touch with Do,
A daring bridge from Me to You
That spans the gorge from birth to gone,
And finds beyond it the world redrawn.
We are far more than thought and mind.
We are all that we leave behind.