Time whispers 'not yet, not yet'.
And then 'too late, too late'.
Many of the voices are those of Time who knows only sequence and manipulates our emotions through concepts of before and after.
Travellers exchange stories of times past and futures dreamt of.
All to some degree tales of the imagination, for who can be sure, apart from where we are now, and even that is a mystery. Our coordinates add up to only so much. These familiars, if I am really honest, are really strangers, as I am myself. That is the quality of the mysterious - that it is forever unknown. Forever elusive from grasp, yet we can dwell in its sometimes pleasing contours with some ease if we relax.
Time rotates, sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly, but always at the same rate.
Time listens to our ruminations on the eternal and chides us. 'There is only a limited time in this mortal frame. Act now, otherwise your frame will never transcend to the hopes of your theories but dissipate back into the soup of oblivion.'
Time is an innocent child and a grim reaper. A journeyman and a watch-maker. The author of surprise in the familiar turn of the seasons. Time cuts both ways. Majestic, aspirational, regretful, cheating. She builds up and strips. All ephemeral but what beauty in transience.
Time is perceived as a series of moments - some held to have more poignancy, relevance, meaning, opportunity, clarity, beauty and pregnancy than others. Bardos are gateways in time to greater consciousness - doors to new experience - openings to liberation.
Time can be conceived as an arrow flying forward (or so it seems) yet who can say what really is forward and what is back? Time is also a circle - the ring of eternity in which all happens.
The substance of Time is a cloth whose fabric wants to be desired - wants to be possessed. Yet really, it is only our attitude that counts.
The pieces of Time play on the board of matter - and beyond - beyond the movement of the game there is only that which exceeds words - so a poem like this must learn to be silent on such matters.
And then 'too late, too late'.
Many of the voices are those of Time who knows only sequence and manipulates our emotions through concepts of before and after.
Travellers exchange stories of times past and futures dreamt of.
All to some degree tales of the imagination, for who can be sure, apart from where we are now, and even that is a mystery. Our coordinates add up to only so much. These familiars, if I am really honest, are really strangers, as I am myself. That is the quality of the mysterious - that it is forever unknown. Forever elusive from grasp, yet we can dwell in its sometimes pleasing contours with some ease if we relax.
Time rotates, sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly, but always at the same rate.
Time listens to our ruminations on the eternal and chides us. 'There is only a limited time in this mortal frame. Act now, otherwise your frame will never transcend to the hopes of your theories but dissipate back into the soup of oblivion.'
Time is an innocent child and a grim reaper. A journeyman and a watch-maker. The author of surprise in the familiar turn of the seasons. Time cuts both ways. Majestic, aspirational, regretful, cheating. She builds up and strips. All ephemeral but what beauty in transience.
Time is perceived as a series of moments - some held to have more poignancy, relevance, meaning, opportunity, clarity, beauty and pregnancy than others. Bardos are gateways in time to greater consciousness - doors to new experience - openings to liberation.
Time can be conceived as an arrow flying forward (or so it seems) yet who can say what really is forward and what is back? Time is also a circle - the ring of eternity in which all happens.
The substance of Time is a cloth whose fabric wants to be desired - wants to be possessed. Yet really, it is only our attitude that counts.
The pieces of Time play on the board of matter - and beyond - beyond the movement of the game there is only that which exceeds words - so a poem like this must learn to be silent on such matters.
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