Fleeting Beauty Of This Life
© Surazeus
2018 09 07
After she arranges each photograph
under plastic covers in the large album,
that present members of her family
at various events over many years,
she presses it to her heart with a smile
and tries not to cry since they all are dead.
Holding up her eye phone with glowing light
to record video for lost memories,
she watches two sons of her daughter play
Superman and Batman in flowing capes
as they run around the small house and shout
about saving people from criminals.
Sipping tea from gold-rimmed porcelain cup,
with apple blossoms painted on its side,
she watches three cats in the lush backyard
stalk birds with tails swishing in warm sunlight,
then posts photos of their play on Face Book,
and chuckles at all the likes and comments.
Baking pies for her grandchildren to eat,
she thinks about her grandmother who lived
seventy years in old house on the farm
in the quiet days of the voiceless wind
not long before television or radio,
so alone under the vast empty sky.
Gazing at glowing eye phone in her hand,
as she scrolls to read posts of all her friends,
she wonders at how connected we are
by the internet of the world wide web
that shimmers like some primitive brain
as if our world is evolving one mind.
We never knew how other people lived
day by day in their struggles to exist,
but now we can see all our lives unfold
through endless dramas of activities
now being stored as stories and photographs
in computer neurons of the world brain.
Whatever people think is real or not
means nothing to the memories of the world
for only what we store will become real,
ghosts of our spirits flashing in gold circuits
while our bodies dissolve to swirling dust
and become the soil where new fruit trees grow.
Watching her grandchildren sleep in moonlight,
she draws simple picture of their wild play,
writes short poem about curiosity,
then posts them both together on Face Book,
and smiles while her friends post playful comments
about the fleeting beauty of this life.
© Surazeus
2018 09 07
After she arranges each photograph
under plastic covers in the large album,
that present members of her family
at various events over many years,
she presses it to her heart with a smile
and tries not to cry since they all are dead.
Holding up her eye phone with glowing light
to record video for lost memories,
she watches two sons of her daughter play
Superman and Batman in flowing capes
as they run around the small house and shout
about saving people from criminals.
Sipping tea from gold-rimmed porcelain cup,
with apple blossoms painted on its side,
she watches three cats in the lush backyard
stalk birds with tails swishing in warm sunlight,
then posts photos of their play on Face Book,
and chuckles at all the likes and comments.
Baking pies for her grandchildren to eat,
she thinks about her grandmother who lived
seventy years in old house on the farm
in the quiet days of the voiceless wind
not long before television or radio,
so alone under the vast empty sky.
Gazing at glowing eye phone in her hand,
as she scrolls to read posts of all her friends,
she wonders at how connected we are
by the internet of the world wide web
that shimmers like some primitive brain
as if our world is evolving one mind.
We never knew how other people lived
day by day in their struggles to exist,
but now we can see all our lives unfold
through endless dramas of activities
now being stored as stories and photographs
in computer neurons of the world brain.
Whatever people think is real or not
means nothing to the memories of the world
for only what we store will become real,
ghosts of our spirits flashing in gold circuits
while our bodies dissolve to swirling dust
and become the soil where new fruit trees grow.
Watching her grandchildren sleep in moonlight,
she draws simple picture of their wild play,
writes short poem about curiosity,
then posts them both together on Face Book,
and smiles while her friends post playful comments
about the fleeting beauty of this life.
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