My father was a complicated man.
Expressing emotions did not come easy to him,
neither did verbalizing the many thoughts that
he often pondered deeply.
His last few years were fraught with anxiety, pain,
and questioning if there had been a purpose to
his life.
In an attempt to try and soothe his anxieties,
I wrote a poem for him.
(Having noticed that sometimes the written word
can be far more effective in reaching someone's
heart than the spoken word.)
Life in every breath
Reality of finality
A stark reminder
of humanity and
its vulnerability.
Time once a friend
now less to spend.
The past, the then,
such a curious blend.
The mind an easy prey
when eerie thoughts linger
in the dark of the night
or during the day.
Can a whole life fit in the palm of a hand
or a life lived in full, in a grain of sand?
Do the stars come out at night
just to stir the imagination?
Do the birds sing just to
evoke joy and fascination?
Do we really need to know
why atoms stick together
to appreciate our lives
and love each other better?
Watching our children
as they mature before our eyes,
do we see that in their very beings
we live forever through a love that binds?
Perhaps the fear of nothingness
can be expelled by the hope of something-ness?
Perhaps a little faith in love and tenderness
can mollify persisting thoughts of emptiness?
Maybe every moment of life we are given
are not ours to claim nor that we've earned them.
Moments are fragile, delicate like bubbles.
Fleeting, floating, yet ever so fabulous.
As long as we take one breath and then another,
there is living, loving and so much life to discover.
All we need to do is open our eyes and truly see
that the purpose, the reason for life ...... is to BE.
''The purpose of life is to live it,
taste it, to experience it to the utmost,
to reach out eagerly for newer and
richer experiences.''
(Eleanor Roosevelt)
about the image: graphite on large cardboard
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