A passing
William s.peters,sr

                                        

Sitting here reflecting,
Contemplating,
Examining,
Considering,
My experiential-ness
Being circumspectively careful
Not to get the foot
Of my consciousness ensnared
By that little impish me
Who lends himself to judgment

Looking back,
Looking ahead,
Looking at
Where I stand,
It is hard to be conclusive
As to what the meaning
Of my life is,
Should be,
Or what end I strive or pine
For

Inclusive versus exclusive
A presumptive preclusive oxymoron

I do know
That somewhere within the recesses
Of who I vainly perceive myself
To be
That I wish
To leave a few notes
Or clues
That I did come this way

Sure, I have children,
Two handfuls of grands
And a great grandson as well,
But what would they tell
To their own
Of what they have known
Of my existence?

He was a good guy ?
He was a poet, a writer,
A peacemaker, a fighter
He believed, he condemned
He condoned, he damned

He loved, he hated
He took chances, he waited . . .
Too long

What was that song he always hummed ?
Who knows, but he did hum . . . along . . .
With some music
It appeared
That only he could hear

He was courageously
Filled with a fear
Of what he would become,
Of what we would become

To sum it all up
I am not quite so sure
If my cup
Was half empty,
Or half full,
Or if it makes a damn bit of difference,
But I do believe
I had,
And still have potential

The essential thing I attest
About living
Is in the giving
Of one’s self
To the effort of pretense,
Hence, why bother otherwise
If one can not surmise,
And persuade themselves
To engage
In the exploration
Of possibilities and potentialities

The surrealities and fiction
Has its own derelictions . . .
Darkness, light and . . .
Truths
That transform themselves
From the age of consciousness . . .

Conception to the grave
From our youth,
Until we save ourselves
From our selves . . .

And here I am,
Still attempting to drown out the dissent
Found in those whispering voices
That tell me
There are little choices
That I have
To be other than
What I am told
By that around me,
Which surrounds me
Within
And without

Somehow,
I have mastered the ability
To doubt myself
And all that
I could have been,
And still yet can be

Funny thing about contemplation and reflection,
The process of certitudinal detection
Of what truly is,
Is as kaleidoscopic
As it ever could be,
For thoughts
Have no boundaries . . .
No, they can not be contained
As we would like them to be,
For they are only passing . . .
A passing through
Once again

© 9 December 2019 : william s. peters, sr.

www.iamjustbill.com