Commentary and Philosophy Poetry posted June 8, 2024

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Trying to make sense of life

Windows

by estory

Our windows seem to be trying to tell us something,

But we can't make out exactly what.

We see the light, we feel the light,

But we can't hold the light in our hands

As it brightens and then fades away

While the clouds in the sky form and dissolve.

When the rains come breaking in,

We listen to the raindrops on the glass

And wait for the dark storm to pass.

Through these windows we've seen days come and go,

The midnight sky brightening in the east

And then settling at last into the mysterious west.

We hear things in the distance:

The cry of a baby, traffic out on the highway,

A news helicopter, a television show,

Bits of music in the air down the block,

A rumble of thunder, a jackhammer,

An argument and a church bell.

We know that if we sit here long enough

We will see the grass grow up from under the snow,

The flowers rise and blossom and bloom,

Wither into curled up leaves and stems.

The green leaves slowly turning,

Falling into piles in the yard.

Then the snow will cover everything, again.

We wish we could leave,

But we don't know where to go.

We know there is a whole world out there,

But we can't see it all from here.

And little by little, our time is running out.

We watch our face in the glass

Growing older, growing sadder

While the chances of a lifetime

Pass away and leave us behind.

We wonder if there is anyone else out there

Thinking of us in here

Sitting at this window

With our pen in our hand,

Wondering what we're writing about.

And what will become of all this

After we've gone.

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Recognized

Our experience of life often seems to me to be an experience of hopes and dreams that never come true, memories that fade into the mundane repetitions of the seasons, glimpses of sunlight seen through the rain, bits and pieces of images we can't quite fathom. In trying to piece together the meaning of life, we are left with snips of emotions, suggestions of paradise, love and passion, all undermined by approaching death. And then we have to wonder, what will people remember of us after we've gone? What did our life here amount to? Most of these poems were written after my father passed away and I was in a very sober and somber frame of mind. Hope there is in the world and in life, but sometimes it is hard to grasp and hold onto. estory

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Trying to make sense of life

Windows

by estory

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