In the chaos of the time
When fruitless words have fallen
to aria of wind
When the end dictates
the beginning of a virgin earth
wiped anew with destruction
In the residue of life
Where will the memories lie
of the child, of the youth
and the wise old man
In the hand of death in the eyes that see
In the eyes of you and in the eyes of me
<Deleted User> (9882)
Fri 31st May 2019 12:42
Des, you have always been good at this great game but let me tell you dude you are most certainly getting better by the poem!
Rose ?
'Where will the memories lie
of the child, of the youth
and the wise old man'
- that's a very interesting question you ask there, Desmond. It's one all poets ought to address in these febrile times too: if poetry - indeed, all art - has any pretensions to longevity i.e. passing on messages to successive generations (and I like to think this should be as important as speaking to the present moment - poetry isn't chip-wrappings) what will be the fate of all of humanity's creative output if there's going to be no tomorrow in which to appreciate it? A sobering, nay, terrifying thought.
Desmond,
The word apocalyptic comes to mind as the world shirks from its greatest challenge. Your poem poses some very deep questions. We focus on the unimportant when all about us we ignore the apparent.
Thank you for this
Keith
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DESMOND CHILDS
Fri 31st May 2019 18:18
Thank you Rose, Keith and Martin for your comments, very much appreciate your time. Thank you Rose for the encouragement.