you cannot put your finger on it. . .

But even if
you really could,
you couldn’t really
hold it there,
out of time,
on a wing,
up high mid-air. . .

And yet,
you know it’s there. . .

in wind of flute,
in plucked harp string,

hearing, feeling in cohorts
with an orchestra,
blaring jazzy swingey horns,

or with one
of somewhat different sort,
caught in the act
of symphony-ing.

Much as
a wasp-waist glass’s
falling sand,
sometimes you feel
life slips away,
now quick-sand-quick
and, now, slow, slow
much like molasses,

to leave you lonely,
your world
with one less
friend and holding hand. . .

You look and see life,
see it grow
deep secret
hid in the center
of a purple
morning glory,

when gently kissed
and glistening,
wet with
one young new day’s
beads of dew,
or dry, at night,
its glory closed,
lit by moonbeam’s glow. . .

You see it
in the hue-filled,
rough brush strokes
and plenty other
forms of other art. . .

You see it in
your moments
of stupidity,
and in the times
you are most smart. . .

You don’t see clear
to your life’s end,
and don’t remember
how it was
back at your start. . .

But, it’s key
to know
you are alive. . .

and if you ever
should doubt that,
at any point
along your path,

think on
+++++ what and whom you’ve lost
+++++ along the way–
++++++++++ and cry. . .
and on
+++++ how you’re glad
+++++ you had them then,
+++++ good times,
+++++ and funny things they used to do. . .
+++++ though you can’t always say
+++++ exactly why. . .

Then let a smile
wave through
and over you,
and let out
a happy belly laugh.

This entry was posted in Poetic Musing (Longer Poems), Poetry, Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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