A Cup of Tea at the End of Time

The light’s gone out. The stars have ceased

To shine their brightness round the space they’d leased,

While every world’s waned to dust

Beneath the weight of eons glazed with rust.

Yet here we sit, with tea grown cold,

Upon some plane beyond temporal gold,

Afraid to drain the final drops

And see beyond when clockwork’s stirring stops.

 

This poem imagines the end of the universe, when all the energy of all the stars has dissipated, and everything fades to nothing. If any living thing remains at that point, I expect they'd wonder what comes next - what will wait beyond the end - but I also expect they'd be a little afraid of how their existence might change, or end, or continue in some unknown way. To a lesser extent, I suppose it's similar to the uncertainty we feel every day, unsure of what new turns our paths will take.

Forgiveness

Dark is the night that comforts me,

And gray does the morning dawn

With rainclouds holding vigil near,

Striped across the sky beneath the sun.

Dark do the shadows come for me

And stray on the warming lawn

But fade, evaporating clear,

Wiped away as hatred comes undone.

 

This poem is another one where, when I started writing, I didn't know what the theme was going to be. Eventually, the idea of a dark night and gray dawn transforming into a warm, renewed morning seemed to parallel the feeling of forgiving - of letting go of the hate you've been holding to move forward anew.

Perseverance

What is the chance that a raindrop falls

Precisely upon a speck of dust?

Does it matter?
Perhaps we’re safe to trust

That if the rain falls hard enough

The drops which flood the surface must,

As they scatter,

Wash away that stubborn speck of dust.

 

As you might imagine, this poem started while I was watching the rain outside, and looking at where the raindrops were falling on the ground. Eventually, I realized that this idea was something of a metaphor for perseverance: Even if we are not able to achieve a goal perfectly in a single attempt, continuing to try may eventually bring success - even if perfection still eludes us.

Friendship Fully Filled

What better indication

Of friendship fully filled

Than the opening of heart and home

And the harmony instilled

By the thoughts of those we’ve waited long

Again to hear and see?

Perhaps I sing a simple song,

But nothing’s more precious to me.

 

I've been traveling over the past couple of months - I have still been writing poetry, but haven't taken the time to actually post anything. Now that I'm back in Nairobi, here's one inspired by the fact that I got to see some friends during my travels. I think the meaning is pretty straightforward - those folks just mean a lot to me.

Forward into Freedom

There are parts of me

You cannot see

When I obey

The confines built by bricks of yesterday.

But a future where

The walls are rare

Allows my soul

To find itself again, emerging whole.

 

This poem probably doesn't require a whole lot of explanation, especially since it has a similar theme to the one from last week - not being confined by what we've done in the past, and being open to the freedom provided by the future.

Guiding Lines

A notebook’s ruled with guiding lines

Some certain distance spread apart

Where words conform themselves to fit

Their shapes within this arbitrary chart,

But like a planted row of pines

Which cannot match a forest’s whit,

A life confined by guiding lines

Will never learn the best this world has writ.

 

Continuing the book theme in this series of eight-line poems, this week's offering focuses on notebooks with lined paper. If we strictly follow those lines, it confines what we write to a certain size and shape. This poem relates that idea to our lives - at least on occasion, it may be valuable to try to look beyond society's typical expectations (its "guiding lines"), to experiment with new shapes, forms, and ideas.

Paperbacks

A little more disposable

These books are built to be.

Their covers fade and the pages curl,

But their words still speak to me.

Their every leaf is mutable

To fall with time’s decay,

But in my heart, they place a pearl

Whose power there will stay.

 

This is the fifth in a series of eight-line poems, and it's a direct follow-up to the previous poem in the series, which was about how stories can sweep us up and transport us to new places. This new poem contrasts the fact that physical books - and perhaps especially paperbacks - can fade and fray, while the themes and stories they convey can stay with us forever.