As Time Goes By OR Love, a (Personal) History

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Time passes; we change, grow older, yet a loved one’s image remains much the same, ageless and timeless in our eyes … 

If we take an hourglass as a metaphor for life, time passing should never be thought of as its  gradually emptying but as its constantly in need of topping up ... with all the emotional resources available to us, especially love.

This poem is a villanelle.

AS TIME GOES BY

Brown hair, shades of grey,
whatever path I pursue;
time, ever slipping away…

Fun childhood days at play,
youth’s wild ways too;
brown hair, shades of grey

“Let’s laugh, not cry!” I say
(some wishes come true)
time, ever slipping away…

For every weepy Blues day,
golden moments too;
brown hair, shades of grey

Late, love, it came my way,
gave my heart to you;
time, ever slipping away…

Forever, love vowed to stay,
life’s tangled strands undo;
brown hair, shades of grey,
time, ever slipping away…

Copyright R. N. Taber 2002; 2014

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in First Person Plural by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2002.]

Metamorphoses, from Cradle to Grave

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As we metamorphose from infant to adult, from birth through life to death, who’s to say what will happen to us along the way?  We can but hope to meet life’s challenges head-on and come through them a better person.

Ah, but do we ever, at heart, leave childhood behind completely? I suspect the good, the bad and the ugly affect our behaviour in later years. Some of us will have enjoyed an idyllic childhood, but life is no idyll and that can be a tough lesson to learn. Others will have been less fortunate during their formative years; we can but do our best to shrug off unwanted baggage, and turn it into something positive; for as start, looking for the good in people instead of rushing to judge the bad and the ugly. (Who knows what baggage they may be struggling to but unable to shrug off?)  

For me, this nursery rhyme invokes ghosts of childhood and beyond that represent the various stages of ‘me’; a ‘me’ visible only to the inner eye, and one - that had a BAD relationship with my father - I wish, would go away, but of course, it never will, any more than a significant part of the damage it caused. Even so, life - for most of us - is a positive learning curve, and the children we were are a far cry from the adults finally put to rest.

‘Yesterday, upon the stair,
I met a man who wasn’t there
He wasn’t there again today
I wish, I wish he’d go away...’

Perhaps you know the feeling?

This poem is a villanelle.

METAMORPHOSES, FROM CRADLE TO GRAVE

Days of nursery rhyme
maturing, breaking free;
haunting mists of time

Let’s walk, talk, climb
singing) up an apple tree;
days of nursery rhyme

This gene, that enzyme
maturing, breaking free;
haunting mists of time

First summits to climb,
marathons run to victory;
days of nursery rhyme

Graduating to prime,
wandering thoughtfully;
haunting mists of time

Charged with a crime
for each lost opportunity;
days of nursery rhyme,
haunting mists of time

Copyright R. N.Taber 2007; 2012

[NB This poem has been slightly revised (2012) from the original as it appears in  Accomplices to Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007.]

[Please Note: My collections are only on sale in the UK but anyone can order (signed) copies from me at a generous blogger discount. For details, contact rogertab@aol.com with ‘Blog reader’ or Poetry collection’ in the subject field.]

Epiphany On Hampstead Heath

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Hampstead Heath has not seen any snow (yet) this winter, but I went for a stroll there only yesterday afternoon in brilliant sunshine, and ...it felt GOOD to be alive.

Photo: Hampstead heath in Winter

EPIPHANY ON HAMPSTEAD HEATH

I stood on Parliament Hill

watching children playing in the snow,

wondering where, oh, where

did my childhood go? And the rosy faces

became those I used to know

I walked on Parliament Hill

though a shrill wintry wind sure to blow,

sounds of laughter in my ears

of long, long ago but faded soon enough

among tears I’d come to know

I paused on Parliament Hill

admiring London’s heady New Year show,

wondering where, oh, where

did Santa go? But in a vast maze of streets

that in time I came to know

I descended Parliament Hill,

among sledge marks churning up the snow,

to a coming of age… where

the carefree days and ways of my childhood

may haunt but dare not follow

At the foot of Parliament Hill

I made my way home, thoughtful and slow,

mindful of an epiphany…when

I embraced the cheers and fears of adulthood

on the Heath, one January snow

Copyright R. N. Taber 2009

Last One Home Is A Green Pig

Whatever happened to childhood? Given that we carry much of those early years into maturity, we may well ask why adulthood often resembles a green pig…


LAST ONE HOME IS A GREEN PIG

Spots of rain on the pavement
heading home, marked out
like hopscotch and whose turn
to throw the slate?
A hop, skip and jump, anxious
to land well clear, stay ahead,
aware that last one home
is a green pig;
Rain comes faster than an enemy
at the gate, wiping out all effort,
obliging someone - to
pocket the slate;
What next, computer games?
(No one at home likely
to insist we must
take turns);
For slate, read mouse, dying
to score (Oh, the lives little
people play and always
up for more!);
Sun’s out; pavement dries
to a smug grin, like
the face of a pig
coloured green

[From: The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004]