The Mystery of Time

Time is a mystery.
Some say it doesn’t exist,
Others point to evidence all around.

Like a tree falling in the woods,
I say, It does indeed exist,
But only matters if you are there to see it.

by Cody McCullough

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Photo by Elizabeth McCullough

The Present

There is only the present
The past never was
The future never will be
This moment is all that we get
Make it worthwhile

by Cody McCullough

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Photo by Elizabeth McCullough

Collection II

The Present

Interlude

With all 23 poems now published, “The Past” has officially come to a close.  Thank you to everyone who has read, liked, or commented on my poems.  Tomorrow the journey continues with the beginning of “The Present.”  Today, I revised my Publication Calendar to account for a few extras to “The Past, Present, and Future.”  Forty-five days from now, “The Future” will near its ultimate conclusion with one of my favorite poems in the entire collection: “The Convergence.”  Since I didn’t publish a poem today, I’d like to share a sneak peek from that poem.  Without further ado, here is a stanza from “The Convergence”:

Like the moon traveling across the sky,
The past slowly approached the future.

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Photo by Cody McCullough

The Journey Begins….

Like a trip along the Icknield Way,
My journey began long ago
And contains many ghosts.

In the beginning, it was euphoric
Everything was new and exciting,
Even the missteps were intriguing.

My needs and desires were all met.
Companions surrounded me.
Worry, and fear were at bay.

Treading the footsteps of the past,
I slowly learned to navigate.
Some faces stayed, others changed.

In time, I found a path worth exploring.
With solemn and curious eyes I set out,
And left the past behind.

Like a ghost caught between two worlds,
Though, the past does not know how to die.
It haunts and guides me along my way.

Every time that I try to forget that it exists,
It reaches out and pulls me back.
“I am still here,” it whispers in my ear.

Now, I know the past is not to be ignored.
Without its ghosts, we walk blindly on our journey
With no map to guide us across the land.

by Cody McCullough

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Photo by Cody McCullough

The Wasteland

I was born on the far end
Of a desolate wasteland
Endless miles of juniper, sagebrush,
Cheatgrass, and dusty Earth,
As far as the eye can see.

More than a century earlier,
Pioneers skipped over
Its rugged landscape
For the fertile soil of the
Damp valley beyond the mountains.

Thousands of years earlier,
Some of the first Americans
Skipped over it as well
For the path that would lead them
To the bountiful lands of the south.

Escapists, adventurers, and many others
Eventually called the wasteland home,
My ancestors among them.
Whatever their reason for coming,
They found one good enough to stay.

Living on the edge of the wasteland,
And in a sense Western society itself,
Is not for everyone.
So I left the wasteland one day,
But it refuses to leave me.

by Cody McCullough

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Photo by Elizabeth McCullough

The Intersection

The wheels of time slowed to a crawl,
As I stopped at the intersection
On a breezy day years ago.

It appeared like any other four-way stop.
Cars and pedestrians, all taking turns
Before going their separate ways.

Only later did I recognize the truth.
It was not an ordinary intersection.
It was, and is, the intersection.

Sitting behind the wheel,
I saw the events slowly unfold
For open eyes to see.

The family was to my right
A father, a mother, their children,
And the boy.

The family began to cross,
But the boy did not.
He stood there, alone and scared.

Safely across, the family began to proceed
As the boy solemnly looked on
Realizing his family was gone.

Soon the boy’s absence was felt,
As the father looked back and saw
The boy standing there alone.

His body so small and frail,
Longing for protection
From the frightening world.

The father motioned for the boy to cross,
But the boy hesitated, as he looked at the waiting cars.
With tears streaming down, he finally took his first step.

With his hands held up, motioning the cars to stay put,
The boy hurried across the busy road
To the stern looks of his family.

As time began anew, I saw that the boy was me
And recognized the intersection
For what it was, is, and always will be.

by Cody McCullough

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Photo by Elizabeth McCullough

Falling Leaves

All things fade in time.
Like leaves falling from a great tree,
Our memories fade away too.
Each year being replenished,
Like new leaves budding on the great tree.
Old memories, no longer needed,
Wither away like last year’s leaves.
Even the great tree will fade one day,
And so does our mind.
As the tree begins to fade away,
I imagine, it can’t help
But be nostalgic
For the leaves of long ago.

by Cody McCullough

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Photo by Elizabeth McCullough

The Forgotten Realm

Hidden beneath
our feet lies
the forgotten realm.

Its paths and relics
fade with time
and disintegrate.

They exist only
in a disappearing
landscape.

Preservation barely
recovers the
decaying past.

by Cody McCullough

 

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Photo by Cody McCullough

The Humble Man

Ancient emperors
never understood
the humble man.

They sought to
control, manipulate,
and draw maps.

To them, ownership
was the only way
to gain wealth.

Those that lived
simple and humble
were weak.

War was the
only way to build
their empires.

The humble were
enslaved, or pushed
to the fringes.

Rent was paid,
and homage
was bestowed.

The humble man
was mocked
and ridiculed.

Empires flourished,
even when
all was stolen.

Eventually, emperors
and their empires
faded away.

Yet the humble man
knows, their imprint
still remains.

As new groups
seek to control
everywhere and everyone.

by Cody McCullough