Myriads of Memories

Myriads of Memories

by Amy Davis White

Here is a woman's story, from her beginning.

If, when all your cares are past And all your life's but memories, You wonder how to spend your last And quiet moments, think on these Soft wonderings and simple thoughts: What good did you accomplish? Who Was pulled from mis'ry to his heart's Desire because you helped? Unto Which people did you bend your pride? Who were the ones who counted most? And when you've answered these, decide If life was worth wail or worth boast.

Then my eyes felt down a long road Till the road began a bend, Till the lengthy sameness altered In the path my feet had faltered Ever onward, towards its end, Searching, sorrowed 'neath a weighed load.

When I die, Men may praise my fame. When I die, Men may ask my name. When I die, Say I loved the world And loved life, Hated strife, Always strove for good, Did the best I could; Don't say I was hurled From this breath To a death. Death does not exist For those who insist Life continues on. This continuum Is only Of many.

The pictures of my mind entwine About the mem'ries of my eyes: While voices fade and smells evade My thoughts, the ties I still may prize Are ever present, ever pleasant, Always there, forever fair, Relieving thoughts and worries wrought From pain and care, and leaving rare And mingled notes of better hopes For better ends, although Time lends Too little time for making rhymes, And less to spend with new, old friends.

Hold fast your freedom, little lad, And clutch it to your growing heart As aging tears your world apart. With coming years the burdens grow And seldom does the freedom show, But freedom's there For those who care.

Hold fast your freedom, little lad. The time when it could disappear Is drawing much too close, too near. You may be one to save what's spared. It seems there's none, now, to be shared, But freedom's there --- For those who care.

Hold fast your freedom, little lad. Keep mem'ries of our country's start Inside your mind, close to your heart. Remember why they fought and died And what it means to say with pride, "But freedom's there!" For those who care.

I find it so depressing to attempt To concentrate on creativity With all around me a cacophony Of whining, pounding, screeching. I have dreamt Of quiet mountain passes where the breeze Flows soothingly about me, where a rill Runs bubbling toward rocky falls, where still The silent creatures creep among the trees. Amid the noisome tumult of the town There are too few who glorify the peace Of soul engendered by repose. The geese Go gaudily, and know not that they drown. If quiet were the queen and calm the king, All hearts could harmonize, all souls could sing.

It is amazing that some people make Time to complain, while others are content With using time in creativity. Yet some insist incomprehensibly On spouting negatives without relent, Inducing moods we have no wish to take.

Time's path is not straight forward, as is told. Continuum curves back upon itself, Reveals quick glimpses of some other shelf In yet some other cycle. It's as old As birth; an unjust friend who brings to each Its choice of memories, without relent --- Entwines about and captures each event To place it quite securely out of reach: We cannot choose which one we would receive. Our memory's mis-timed, for we recall Some things too vividly --- some, not at all --- And life sometimes seems only make-believe. In which dimension lies reality? There's only memory for us to see.