Only This Second

Dreams unreal tomorrow holds,

No certainties, mere speculation.

Before us now today unfolds,

A brief tomorrow, in duration.

 

Only seconds, fleeting moments,

For use within our hands

To mould and shape, sweetly foment.

This at our command.

 

A vital second of each life,

Only one at just this instant.

Wasted, filled with endless strife?

Or rich with great intent?

 

What is right or wrong we glean.

Where do we want to be?

Have we slept another’s dream,

Their life, their fantasy?

 

Sustained effort, fortitude,

Decisions made, applied,

In such as this, portentous good,

Life is sanctified.

 

No mountain climbed for flag to post

Nor golden haloed wreath,

Fulfilment in what matters most,

Holding to belief.

 

Recognising small but wise,

All seconds clearly count,

They’re striven for, this amplifies

In worth by how they mount

 

In magnitude, their worth, their glory

Those moments every day

That build, arise like Taj, each story,

Monumental in their way.

 

A palace so, not vaulted tomb,

Royal beauty to behold.

Yarn chosen, woven upon each loom,

In all seconds, our stories told.

 

22 thoughts on “Only This Second”

    1. I’m afraid I’m trying to convince myself as much as anyone else, Brenda. 😉 Sometimes it’s hard to remember why the seconds matter. An exercise in motivation I think.x

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      1. I am always trying to be the cheerleader in the writing class I teach, write more, your story matters! Your voice is precious. I really resonated with what you wrote. They are important words, and I hope you do come to see that they are from the most precious, innocent and pure part of you. The part that is untouched by school ridicule, jealous friends, harsh teachers and lukewarm non-poetry friends. That part of you that still feels wonder, treasures beauty and celebrates life. Your story matters to me. 🙂

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      2. I have learned to heal from a very young age, and not to let the scars hide the young child, to let her shine again. We all need sunshine, even those inner children. For whom life is a magical palace.

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      3. Funny, I don’t usually think of myself that way. Healing is something we all do, after all. Maybe I do it with more intention than most. Today was sunny but cold, somehow I don’t feel the cold in the sunshine, though. I’m trying to write about my mother now. A hard task for me.

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      4. Oh, you are. For sure.
        It’s difficult to think or write about those closest to us. I lost my mum four years ago this month and this is always a hellish time for me. It just sneaks up and bites savagely. That’s not the whole story of what’s amiss but I’m sure it has a bearing.
        Hard job this motherhood game. But somebody’s got to do it. Maybe think of how she coped with whatever.x

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      5. I was four, and I remember her as a goddess. But 4 is before you really think complicated thoughts. It’s hard to organize those worshipful thoughts into coherence. And my stepmother, well, that’s another can of worms and at least another bottle of wine. 🙂

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      6. Aw, Brenda, at 4? That should never be. I’d go for the worship. It’s your truth of her memory. That’s all you can go on.
        That bottle of wine or two is looking better every minute. ;)x

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      7. Not everyone gets to keep their mother, the goddess. She’s overwritten by other memories, rebellions, recognition of faults. And I learned to be my own mother, which is a rite of passage most women have to make at some point, maybe through mothering their own children. But, I could use some pasta and red wine about now. 🙂

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      8. It’s all process, isn’t it? Everything we knew and now know; felt, feel now; believe, understand. All part of it. Your mum would be proud, Brenda. You’re your own woman.
        Pasta and red wine sounds ideal. One of my favourite combinations. ;)x

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