The turning of the year from summer to autumn always turns my thoughts to time and what it does in my life, and to my experiences. Especially as I grow older, I feel the press of time's inexorable cadence. I have struggled with time a long time! As this verse written in March 1978 attests.
The
Days
Unyielding soldiers, the days march on.
Sometimes, when life is fortunate,
(or I more skilled?) I call these soldiers kind,
and happily I step with mostly fitted stride,
blessed with calmness and a certain sense of pride.
But other days their tempo tears my mind,
and in their crushing rushing I am trapped behind,
imprisoned in time's bruising double-bind.
My strategy must now be redesigned.
Surprisingly I sometimes find
shelter from attack of future fears and past regrets
by such sturdy soldiers firm in line;
their timely shields can kindly interpose
to guard my precious now.
So
even though the march is swift,
I have found a benefit.
Plans
Today I’ll dust my flute and play
A wondrous tune, and far away
A lark will know its meaning.
I’ll sing, and listeners far and near
Will marvel at the sound they hear.
(But first I’ll finish cleaning.)
Today I’ll take a piece of clay
And make a form that lives to say
That beauty is unending;
I’ll paint a picture that, when shown,
Art connoisseurs will fight to own,
(When I’ve done the mending.)
Today I’ll let the tide of me
Swell forth the things inside of me,
At least by afternoon.
I’ll do the things I ache to do;
I’ll find the time they take to do.
Well, not today,
But soon.
~Annie Komorny
Some times
are better than other times
and sometimes
I can’t tell them apart.
A part of me is
always wondering
which time it really is
or was
or will be
instead of enjoying the time
that is.
It is
not always what I enjoy
but I do it anyway
almost all the time.
These are the suddenly-found tintypes mentioned in the poem below.
My grandfather at age 4 maybe.
He was born Nov 1882,
130 years ago this month.
And below, taken a couple of years later
with sister Bessie, born 18 Feb 1884.
Bessie Lee, his sister, with whom I share a
middle name and a birthday. We never met,
but I was told I by my grandfather
that I reminded him of her.
I, too, was sober
and painfully shy.
Sallie Ann Kilpatrick married
Hosea James Nicholes
when she was regarded
as an old maid--she was
about 30 years old.
They had two children
before her death
from consumption
in Jan 1892.
Sorting
The third day of digging
through a card board liquor box
crammed with layers of letters, clippings, children’s scribbles,
college grade reports, diplomas, poems, pictures, and other miscellaneous stuff
that mostly defies any explanation….
including empty envelopes, paint chip brochures,
sheets of blank notebook paper,
ugly Christmas cards from people I cannot even place,
and then amid the mess
four tintypes of my father’s father when he was a child,
and Sally Ann his mother who died when he was eight,
and his solemn little sister Bess in her white birthday dress.
I thought it almost worth
the backache bending by this mousey box of long-ago debris for hours,
looking at the stuff I’ve saved,
just to find those four small metal sheets engraved.
Glad I was a coward and hadn’t tossed the whole thing
without laborious looking, sorting, marveling—
first wondering how I managed hauling it with me over 50 some
odd years,
through twenty (some odd) moves,
and secondly,
wondering why I did.
Some things are easy now to toss,
having forgotten entirely what the item meant to me;
but a few startling things that made me smile, made me sigh,
drew me back in time to old, old roads
I had not thought about for years.
A few things to make me wonder who that former self really was.
What were her joys about? Her tears?
Then two more photos, not so old!
Totally surprising me with eyes I’ve fallen into willingly
when part of me was fifteen,
and part of me felt ageless still.
I wouldn’t dare do that anymore,
but I’m not sorry I did it then.
I can almost remember what that was like,
and almost wish I had the eyes to see again.
What does it signify that finally, at seventyfive, I can dig
through layers of leaves from all those seasons of my past,
and actually part with most of them?
Is it because they now are faded to a same dull brown?
Ah, but did I not find some still with golden glow,
Layered tight amid the clutter crammed inside that card board box?
And as you may have guessed, for awhile
I safely place these few into a new and smaller case,
which I shall not sort again,
until I have forgotten even these
and can no longer smile.
(Written October 10, 2007)
