Moments rushing, rushing, rushing,
Tumbling, trampling, pushing, crushing.
Impatiently moving; So anxious to go
As if scuttled by fear and murderous foe.
For a moment they’re here and then they are gone
Like a rippled reflection lost in a pond
Promptly transfigured to shadows of dust
Reality surrendered – polish to rust.
Such chaos and carnage, I can’t help but reckon
Would it hurt them to pause for one pithy second?
All that I want from my moment debris
Is one untarnished granule of antiquity
But yet when I manage one snip to extract
It slips from my grip
And goes racing back.
Written in response to the writer’s prompt “Moment” at Writer’s Island.
Lost on Writer’s Island
Directions, a compass. I have little concept of either. My internal compass has a weak magnetic pole and a delicate spinner. Like a bad cell-phone, the mechanism is intercepted and useless when walled in by steel, concrete, wood, shadow, or the absence of sunshine.
North, south, east, west. It’s all one and the same to me. Take me into a building with a two-cornered hallway and my compass goes kaput. And then I am lost – looking for Hub to take my hand and lead me out of there. He can follow his nose in the pitch-dark of night and still get where he is going.
Got lost the other day. Went down some non-distinctive hallway at Pauline’s Site and ended up marooned on ‘Writer’s Island’. An island foggy with sea salt and tide. Compass down and no traditional signage to lead me home. Just a roadside prompt that said, “Moments” and some oblique reference to poetry.
Desperate to escape, I spun my poem of “moments” and turned the corner to find I was back on a familiar corner and a familiar street. And that is how this poem came to be.