Art: Debra A Hitchcock
Awake
I came, I went, yet I am always here.
I lived, will die, yet I am always here.
I hurt, I sicken, yet I am always here.
What does this tell me, being always here?
My meaning, my aging, my private pain
Have no real value when I am always here.
My special history is just a dream,
A kaleidoscope of changing pictures;
I only have this moment to awake.
My fancy images of what has been
Evaporate like shining mirages
When I come upon the actual scene.
The instant taking in of what is here
Wipes out my past and bars the future days.
I'm snapped in place without a trace of me.
A total nought, filled with the busy world,
The portion that comes slipping in right now.
No more, no less, a lightsome show of shows
Put on, of course, for no one here at all,
An absent viewer of the moving view,
Eternally grateful, heartened with joy.
Virginia Parsell
I came, I went, yet I am always here.
I lived, will die, yet I am always here.
I hurt, I sicken, yet I am always here.
What does this tell me, being always here?
My meaning, my aging, my private pain
Have no real value when I am always here.
My special history is just a dream,
A kaleidoscope of changing pictures;
I only have this moment to awake.
My fancy images of what has been
Evaporate like shining mirages
When I come upon the actual scene.
The instant taking in of what is here
Wipes out my past and bars the future days.
I'm snapped in place without a trace of me.
A total nought, filled with the busy world,
The portion that comes slipping in right now.
No more, no less, a lightsome show of shows
Put on, of course, for no one here at all,
An absent viewer of the moving view,
Eternally grateful, heartened with joy.
Virginia Parsell
more poems from Virginia Parsell Here
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