You are here at last
Welcome to the now moment
Don’t try to hang on

About Ben Naga

The Spirit that graces me with its passing has no name and stems not from thoughts and words, though it gathers them up as it flows, but from feeling.

Posted on November 24, 2013, in Wee Poems and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. 6 Comments.

  1. I’ve been hanging on to The Greatest Moment Of My LIfe With One Other for twenty years,
    one month and two days. I intend to hang on to to It for The Rest Of My Life.

    Liked by 1 person


    Continue to arrive
    Greetings when meeting again
    Let the river flow

    Liked by 1 person


      Mythmakers all we are
      And so meeting
      Compare our mythologies
      (Like so many have before)
      Inner fire and heirlooms
      Bounced cheques and littered highways
      Dream rivers that disappear into the sand
      Heartflow that stops and starts
      And the long work of reconstruction

      Artists all we are
      And so meeting
      Compare our artistry
      Plain talk with rich recesses
      Nuances to old questions
      The curl of the cry
      At the wellsprings of voice

      Hunter at bay
      The poet crawls and capers
      Across the carnival and charnel-house of life
      Fractious fragment of the Creator
      Who hath made all things well
      Adolescent loneliness
      Adult uncertainty
      Menopausal anxiety
      And senile decay

      Actors all we are
      Though no spectator views us
      And so meeting
      Compare our pasts and futures
      As all our heres and nows come down to one

      Liked by 1 person

      • Brilliant poem.

        Thoughtful urges spring from my center. Words dance life’s images
        across a moving window.
        The actors we shall be
        with no rows of seats to fill.
        Our stage is a mindful
        of lost and found memories.
        Sorting it out takes
        what time is given
        but not known.
        Using every moment
        to imagine the dream
        we float within
        each hour upon the ground
        of a forest’s den of trees
        and living creatures
        we have abandoned.
        Causing their surrender
        to being swallowed
        by time’s eventual decay
        of it all.
        Will it all come to end?
        Or do we choose to live
        backwards from that day.

        Liked by 1 person

      • Pondering on among the swirling ,,

        Liked by 1 person

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