Everything else seems of yesterday because it is good

Everything else seems of yesterday,
because it is good to there come after adventures
away,
all of us born of one common human nation,
in every place where we are, in our whole Earth’s
green, wondrous Creation!
SOME FOLK
seem to be restless, fresh vistas to view
to range and explore across this whole wide Earth,
to ever proactive in making changes anew
to make every moment different, a gem of
unexpected worth,
while others seem meant to be ever contented
to till their own small corner of field,
living in the same place throughout all their lives,
for their own stake in it to habitually strive;
the catalysts for social transformation have always
been the former,
the leaven in the cultural loaf, so to enrich the
routines of the latter,
was not Jesus Christ , himself the son of man,
without a shelter to a lay his head-
but without his errant evangel, where we would we
now be instead?
And so it is with everyone, who has gone away from
the crowd
of habituated citizens, who have so many visions
in their journeys received!
A LANDSCAPE FULL OF MEMORIES
(for Joan, Arnold, Jeff and others I knew near here)
Let fond memories lie in peace,
of past faces, people and old stone houses,
upon, around these hills, from yesteryear
who, long ago, were to me beloved or dear,
for even as the houses grew from the rock with
which they were built,
so we rise from the Earth, to be carried back to it,
except in our memories, made alive, in recalled
anecdotes,
their, now, Spirit beings, like Heathcliffe’s ghost
for Isabel floats,*
in yon eternal sky as encompasses ageless crags,
for as long as we, ourselves, live, shall, alive,
speak to us,
saying, also, move on, be glad that we once met,
share sweet moments, but without regret
and stand still as strong as your ancestral roots
from which new growth of fresh flowers and trees
shoots!
*Reference the Bronte Novel, Wuthering Heights
THE VALUE OF WORDS
What would be the value of one’s words
about how one feels, and knows, values or sees,
if no one hear them, borne away on one’s death’s
eternal breeze
even as they came from the Great Spirit, as it to
one, in a poem, calls,
cameos of many changed & changing worlds,
when that beyond into unsure choices was hurled,
an urban chaos shunned, so as to complete one’s
4

own world,
like an old-world painting on one’s hilltop cottage
wall,
ensuring the fulfilment of a life’s precious moments,
in meditation’s “idleness”, so upliftingly spent,
gifts of the Nine Muses , wings to us, from above lent,
that, like a still dew in silence, like this garden’s
bird-song fall-
where are the former tribal hearths, now, for this
land’s sagas?
As unless read & heard, how can they have fulfilled
their purpose?
“God, the father, our Creator and the sun its
messiah, the all empowering Holy Spirit”
“To soak in every precious moment, in a good-to-be-
place, even as one must cherish every moment of
one’s life, so to full it with our Creator’s Grace!”
“The poet is always there, beneath one’s outward,
social skin, awakened, when we can, into such
meditation, go back within.”