ad Dei Gloriam Ministries
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POETRY ABOUT LIFE - Page 8
by Bill Childers

 Table of Contents


The Tottering Stage
Words at a Late Hour
 

 The Tottering Stage


Where do I begin, where do I end?
What moves my existence along?
What current fuses the latent power
To fashion and style my living song?

If I were to know for sure and certain
The source of my doing and being,
Would I want tomorrow’s answers
To give hope to today’s freeing?

There must be more to those things
Ranging from the important,,, to naught,
From portent of possibility and vision
To fulfillment of dreams long sought.

How is the stage for one’s life set?
How does one forsake that already lost?
How does one tally the baubles and beads,
Ultimately scoring the final cost?

How tragic finding our life a game
When we thought we were living.
How tragic to find we were only taking…
When we really thought we were giving!

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 Words at a Late Hour


Where do I begin, where do I end?
What moves my existence along?
What current fuses the latent power
To fashion and style my living song?

If I were to know for sure and certain
The source of my doing and being,
Would I want tomorrow’s answers
To give hope to today’s freeing?

There must be more to those things
Ranging from the important,,, to naught,
From portent of possibility and vision
To fulfillment of dreams long sought.

How is the stage for one’s life set?
How does one forsake that already lost?
How does one tally the baubles and beads,
Ultimately scoring the final cost?

When one begins to think what one might say
At an hour now past the time for humor and such,
It would seem that thoughts as well begin to stray,
Perhaps, whatever one might think… is not much.

Ah but, ‘tis this not a better burden with which to speak
Of those things lost in the hurry and fuss of light?
My burdens lifted, sent scattering to a distant peak,
Mellow thoughts probe my senses at dark night.

How we flurry midst the sweat and toil of daybreak
Lest we forget a probe into what light may become.
Ofttimes one may not find rest from the hurry days make,
Plagues of what may be lost in living life’s running sum!

Thus, at this late hour the sweetness of dusk has yet set,
Sneaking small stories silently soliciting stoic settings
That bring the unwanted melancholy to mind… and yet,
This hour of the midnight nears to close the soft netting.

And so, words at the late hour need not be at variance
With solace sought as thought hastens to completeness.
One is urged to set free mellowness of risk and chance,
That there be only the whisper… its calm… and quietness.

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