Being here

or, Taking a walk with Susan Goldsmith Wooldridge

May 27th

T  H  I  S       M  O  M  E  N  T.

That moment is gone.

And that moment about that moment is gone.

And this moment too will be gone.

Is gone.

And now you enter the race, the race to beat the moment’s elapse,

To sense and be with the moment, to be here.

Your inner voice puts on a tight-fitting bright yellow Velcro sports top and starts to run.

You and it, combined, building up steam like and old train, huffing and puffing.

With burning orbs for eyes, all four of you strain to see the horizon,

Searching for the winning post where you can claim victory.

Encircling the track time and again, riders on the wall of death,

The world, a blur through your retro goggles.

It won’t stop, can’t stop, it’s always just out of reach like a cartoon cliff top.


This moment is all there is, all there ever will be.

This moment when the Wood Pigeon becomes a glockenspiel,

This moment when the tiger stripes of the neighbour’s cat ripple and blend with caramel sunshine.

When the car engine peters out to the sound filled thought of stuttering water draining from a bucket or your father gargling at the sink.

The moment that is here and now.

The moment when you see THOSE eyes for the first time,

Really, really see them.

Where have they been till now? How have you not seen them?

Warm, dark wells of chocolate that are singing at you,

Eyes can join choirs – who knew?

Welcoming, inviting, daring, teasing globes of enchantment,

Acres of toffee tarpaulin under which a circus of merriment plays.

That moment, that moment too will be gone.

And that moment where those other eyes looked at you and sang a different song.

A song you didn’t hear, absent from the concert hall, you weren’t there to listen,

That moment is gone.

And now your mind takes off the sweat drenched top,

Throws it in the basket, draws the curtains to exclude the light,

Then slumps into its favourite comfy chair called doubt,

Pulls up the quilt of self-abuse and tries to hide from this moment under the pillow of pain.

A contorted heap buried in the darkness, begging for the moment to pass,

To leave and take the torment of spike filled thoughts away.

That moment too will pass and be gone.

Like all moments,

Like this moment,

All moments are like that.

Please do leave me your thoughts and comments, in praise or constructive criticism, I appreciate them all and will reply.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: