The Time We Have

Dear Reader,


The following is a poem I wrote. It is a poem about time - the time in our lives. Like it or not, we are all under the yoke of time. For whatever is born of this world, must eventually die and pass away - to return to the Earth from which it came. I hope this poem will give you some insights on life and death and the time that all of us have.

The pangs of life is but the kiss of death,

One life to live before the final breath;

The sweetest song soon becomes a lament,

When cries of joy are turned into torment.

As roses bloom, so they must wither and fade,

Their pretty petals plucked, and then unmade;

The grass of spring changes to ice and snow,

As life gives way to darkness and woe.

Our life is but a spark that burns too fast,

A rising sun that must descend at last.

The Pangs Of Life

As I sat on a ledge over a cliff, I watched the sinking sun descend into the West. And a great somberness flowed over me as I saw that sinking orb flicker and then fade. The ways of the world felt like a rock in my chest as I pondered the frailty of flesh. As I sat there, my thoughts turned to these words:

The pangs of life is but the kiss of death,

One life to live before the final breath;

The sweetest song soon becomes a lament,

When cries of joy are turned into torment.

As roses bloom, so they must wither and fade,

Their pretty petals plucked, and then unmade;

The grass of spring changes to ice and snow,

As life gives way to darkness and woe.

Our life is but a spark that burns too fast,

A rising sun that must descend at last.

The Priest of Anubis

I, Kamuzu, Priest of Anubis, here relate to you an old piece of wisdom that I learned at the feet of Hanbal, my old Master. I was but a young boy then, studying in the great school of Memphis, learning the ways of the priesthood. It was there that Hanbal taught me an important lesson that I will never forget. Listen well, for if understood, will bring much solace to your life.

In the land of the pyramids,

in an old forgotten tomb,

dust and cobwebs

decorate the home

of a four-thousand-year-old priest.

The thick layer of dust

is a carpet of comfort,

and the cobwebs

a fine tapestry

that even dog-faced Anubis

would be proud of.

Mercas The Mage

Mercas The Mage

I, Sir Hendrick, Knight of the Order of the Dove, came upon an ancient manuscript in the ruins of a broken tower. Listen closely my friends, for this tale brings much instruction upon reflection: 

In ancient times, in an age unknown,
There lived a little sage
That dwelled in a tower of dark stone.
His name was Mercas the mage.

Mercas was a mage of mighty magic,
Who stored secrets in his tower;
He studied the scrolls of lost lands
In his passion for total power.

One stormy night, as shadows covered
The moon with darkened gloom,
Mercas summoned a malevolent demon
From his reading room.

And the dreadful demon broke his bonds
To lunge at Mercas the mage;
His eyes burned with a blazing light
As he howled in hateful rage.

With frost and flame and spell and sword,
Mercas attacked his foe,
But the crafty demon caught Mercas,
And hurled him to his death below.

And so mighty Mercas met his fate
From his love of ancient lore;
His foolish fancy with fickle power
Led to doom at Death's door.

Foxtrot

Foxtrot

One Spring day, in March, a fox crept out of his den. His belly rumbled like a thunderstorm. He looked around the tall grass for something to eat. As he searched the grass, he thought of Farmer Owen's fat chickens. A smile crept up his face and he licked his chops. Here would be good eating! He would fill his belly with nice, plump chicken. It would be the perfect morning meal. With a swish of his bushy tail, he raced for the barn. As he came closer, the fox hid himself behind the barn. There he crouched and lay on the grass. Soon he saw a plump chicken waddle down the dirt path. It huffed and puffed as it pecked the ground, looking for earthworms. The fox smacked his lips and his green eyes gleamed like gems. His paws twitched once in the grass as his muscles tensed. It was time to dance.

foxtrot

squawking 

chicken

The Frog And The Fly

The Frog and the Fly

A wrinkled green frog squats on a lily pad in a pond. Its bulging eyes blink rapidly as it scans the sky. After a few minutes, a steady croaking is heard--a deep, drum like vibration that fills the old pond like a beating heart.

Near the frog, and slightly overhead, a fly buzzes--its wings fluttering at a rapid pace. Drawing near the frog's head, it hovers in the air, mesmerized by the continuous croaking.

The frog sits on its lily pad and stares at the fly. Its croaking ceases and the frog blinks once. Suddenly, a slimy tongue darts out, grabbing the fly and sucking it into its mouth.

old pond

the sound

of croaking