Doors OR T-I-M-E, Exits and Entrances

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

[Update March 14 2018] In the death of Professor Stephen Hawking announced today, the world has just lost a great and truly inspiring man.]

Now, although I have every confidence in the hospital team treating me for the prostate cancer with hormone therapy, I have days when I could feel myself slipping into a depression about it all. Having taught myself to recognise and acknowledge the signs, I knew I had to act or free fall into the abyss. [The abyss and I are old adversaries, but I like to think I can get the upper hand now so long as I don’t let myself go into denial.]

From time to time, I have a really BAD day and (with some difficulty I have to say) need to think myself into philosophical mode; from there, it is only a few metaphorical steps into positive thinking mode, and from there but a hop, skip and a jump into writing mode. Today’s poem is the result of a form of self-help therapy much practised by yours truly.

What is ‘now’? It is always ‘now’. Now is eternal, like time and space. We are ‘Now’. We are from ‘Now’. We are heading for ‘Now’.

What, I wonder, what will our ‘Now’ be like once we arrive at journey’s end, shaped by the choices we have made or left unmade? Whatever, we can but try to arrive at a ‘Now’ that offers a better, kinder existence than its history has shown us (or it) far.

DOORS or T-I-M-E, EXITS AND ENTRANCES

Whenever asked where I come from,

I answer, my mother’s womb,

yet a sense, too, of being somewhere

distant, unknown, as if crossing

mythical territories of time and space

just to get there

When asked about my goals in life,

(prompted by what motivation?)

I have confess I’ve never been sure

which doors are left ajar for us

just to take a peep, our choice, whether

or not we enter.

Some people have made accusations

against me, suggesting I’m sitting

on some rickety, metaphorical fence

rather than face what I might find

should I jump off, explore the potential

for mind and spirit

Stung by the rebuke, I flung them open,

these doors left ajar to tease me,

daring me try translating hieroglyphics

lining mother’s womb, luring me

into a vast maze of corridors whose dust

will host my tomb

I've asked of my self where I come from

and it answered, my mother’s womb,

invoking, too, a sense of having been

somewhere (very) distant, unknown,

crossing vast territories of time and space

just to get here

Now when asked about goals in life,

(prompted by what motivation?)

I have to confess I’ve rarely been able

to decide between doors left ajar 

just for the peeping and others intending

I should enter

On womb, tomb, and in-between doors,

find hieroglyphics writing up 

a (much ghosted) autobiography of life

and death, often taken for graffiti 

on this ‘n’ that door slamming on us

if (never) quite shut

Copyright R. N. Taber 2013