These Hours

These hours on earth are finite son
that seem endless to you now
they flash like drops of water
on hot stone and won't come again.

Your pockets fat with time today
will lighten as you grow into
a day when time's last gasp
escapes with yours.

Born of failures a father's advice
is a legacy offered in hindsight
when his pockets flap like
thin crazed birds in the sun.

These hours that slide away
empty or full, wasted or used
fill them with what most pleases
the senses, our true hands.

If fire pleases you burn to melting
if wind pleases walk high mountains
if animals amuse you live among them
if people among them
if thought delights arrange a place for thinking
there is no end to it
if love crooks a finger march in every time
in love there is no losing
if flowers pull like bees sip nectar till you dizzy
if music exalts surround yourself
if sun moon stars enchant embrace them

and if one day with lean pockets
you find memory pleasing
recall my blood my bone
you've filled my hours to bursting.

by Ray Freed

Other poems of FREED (5)

Comments (1)

Yes Ray I agree, very good advice to a forlorn wayward son. A couple of typos. 10 from Tai,