They may remember
a too-long year
365 days
nineteen more
twelve more hours
until noon dawn
of too-long sought year
ours
drawn two weeks
too weak
to strength
Kristallnacht to Schönertag
mourning through morning
until sun of everyone
rose again
at noon.
Little by Slowly
November, 2016
I inch upward
little by slowly
from this ledge
near bottom
in this abyss
where earth gave way beneath me--
dropping further than I thought my land could drop.
see a climb that will outlive me,
take notice in the dim
of varied walls and sides surrounding:
good sides,
bad sides,
sides with sheared and slippery walls,
sides where I could sculpt and garden,
sides where (little by slowly)
others climb.
They rise from below me.
They lead the way--way above me.
They pause alone to sculpt and
garden.
I shall climb to those nearby:
to those who will outlive abyss,
to those who will pull and push my old bones,
to those who need my stubbornness,
and to those who will feast from my memory
of what was earth above
before collapse.
November, 2020
Despite shrinking time and diminished strength,
I have returned
from the abyss where earth gave way beneath me--
from where I looked up
to a climb I expected to outlive me.
There were shadows and voices
rising from below,
clinging above.
Sunken-but-strong
they would soothe then scold,
come then go,
pull then push.
They would ask then remind
of my memory
of what was earth before collapse.
Little by slowly,
(so little so slowly)
(remote then sudden)
at brink
onto edge
I stand to see
beyond abyss
the great expanse
where
(both changed)
(both enhanced)
reality and memory now dance.
A day to care,
a day to share,
to make a stranger, friend,
to spread a peaceful moment
through circles without end.
A day to care,
a day to share,
to make a stranger, friend,
to accept a neighbor's favor
through circles without end.
In hour of work,
in hours of play,
to remember attention paid,
to share a silent moment
and speak as silence fades.
Our time to be,
yes, time to see
we can be a village growing friends.
Pray, squeeze a hand and give one
through circles without end.
'tis useless to feel useless,
not helpful to feel helpless,
ever more weakening to feel powerless,
spineless to cast blame.
Yet is it not healthful to allow this moment of exception?
I listen in isolation as people I do not know die
isolated from those who do know and love them.
I read of others (too-distant to be neighbors)
now torn apart then cast together by a tornado.
I watch a tragic movie, 'Planet of the Humans'
feeling useless, helpless,
powerless--except to cast blame.
Moment of Exception
Bob Komives
:: Fort Collins © 2020 :: Moment of Exception :: 2003 ::
It uplifts the spirit
to walk ourselves back a tiny step toward our planet's nature
to see bright sun
at what only yesterday
was a dark hour.
Our ancestors
(likely even their ancestors)
knew the meaning of sunrise,
of sunset,
and of the high noon between.
Then,
they begat civilization
which begat commerce and industry
which needed to divide the day and night.
Ancestors gave each a dozen hours.
Sunrise Again in Standard TimeBob KomivesThen, they begat machines and the skills to make them, which begat a desire to give more precision to the 4 o'clock meet. But, (below and above the equator) the best machinists had trouble making their hours shorter then longer (and then shorter again) as our planet's year progressed. Until, they added the two-dozens into twenty-four equal parts, so the machinists could work their magic, and the voiceless sun would have to rise at a different hour and minute each day. But, it worked-- brilliantly. Then, further offspring, machinists and the mechanics, invented the steam engine and its railroads. They made civilization roll into a leap forward again. Their descendants, (our ancestors and their things) moved so quickly along these roads that it became a problem to know the exact hour here but not there: “When do you depart?” “When might I expect you?” “Can't you just write me down a schedule?” So, their children, our ancestors told us to ignore our personal, local high noon. They settled quite comfortably into time zones. Even breathed sighs of relief. It was good-- for a good time. Until, their children, our mothers and fathers, (at work and at play) found it hard to give up the summer. Crazy as it seemed, little by little, place by place, they pushed summer into winter and called it “savings time.” And most of us say it is good-- for a time. For, our ancestors, our mothers and fathers in adding more “unnatural” to the already “unnatural” gave us a sudden, pleasant, yearly, surprise, and (at dark times) a hope-filled metaphor. For, it uplifts the spirit to walk ourselves back a tiny step toward our planet's nature to see bright sun at what only yesterday was a dark, dark hour.
Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 2018 :: Sunrise Again in Standard Time :: 1802..
From branch quite alive this beautiful leaf falls to its death to be reborn as nourishment for same branch, old tree, new leaf.
Life is rough and life is good. Land is rough, but land is good. Waters get rough and harm us, yet water is good; it enlivens us.
Our past taught hard lessons as it brought all that is good.
From branch quite alive this beautiful leaf falls to its death to be reborn as nourishment for same branch, old tree, new leaf.
Life is Rough; Life is GoodBob KomivesFort Collins (c) 2016 :: Life is Rough; Life is Good. :: 1609
Before his invention, before her inspiration, before they saved humankind, rescued our fauna and flora, freed our spirit and body from misery, before this glorious history, before all this came their floundering, their flailing, their drifting from dreams dreamt to dreams lost, from past failure to again failing. Before fame, before success, lonely toil, dogged quest.
Before
Bob Komives
Fort Collins (c) 2016 :: Before :: 1607
Óriási mezőn, ahol zseni, bolond, kuruzsló jár, én egy halvány útat talalok. Bármilyen nehéz azt az útat követni, még nehezebb tudni ki vagyok.
A Szintézis Tehetségéröl
Bob Komives
Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 1994 :: A Szintézis Tehetségéröl :: ,9417h
I found a faint road through a vast field
where genius, fool, and charlatan must ply.
As hard as the road is to follow,
harder still is to know who am I.
On The Art Of Synthesis
Bob Komives
Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 1994 :: On The Art of Synthesis :: ,9417
featured in the book Good Day with the art of Gale Whitman
