The music in the YouTube video below, Forgotten Memory of a Dying Dream, has utterly captivated me. Its delicate piano notes, scattered like raindrops, lull me into a trance, much like the gentle patter of autumn rain. I find myself playing it on repeat, mesmerized by its melancholic beauty. The music is both soothing and evocative, drawing me into a realm of reflection and relaxation. Inspired by this, I felt compelled to offer a poetic response—an embrace, of sorts, to the mood it evokes. But please, I encourage you to listen to the music to fully appreciate the inspiration behind the poem—I have had it on repeat for days.
Autumn’s Forgotten Dream
The keys fall soft, like autumn rain, A whispered sigh in quiet refrain. Each note, a droplet, cool and clear, Tells of dreams that disappear.
The melody drifts, a mournful breeze, Through branches bare of summer’s leaves. It echoes long, then fades away, Like shadows at the edge of day.
In every pause, the silence hums, A memory of what never comes. The piano weeps in gentle streams, For forgotten hopes and dying dreams.
The Sower (oil on canvas, 1888) by Vincent van Gogh (1853-1890). Van Gogh Museum, Amsterdam.
Note on the Origin of This Poem
This poem was inspired by a recent reflection on T.S. Eliot’s Burnt Norton, the first of his Four Quartets (with a nod to Augustine of Hippo’s Confessions, which I have also recently revisited). Eliot’s meditation on time has long intrigued me, particularly his exploration of the eternal present where past, present, and future are interwoven. His lines, “What might have been and what has been / Point to one end, which is always present,” reflect an awareness of unrealized possibilities lingering in memory, resonating with the tension between choice and fate.
While Eliot does not dwell entirely on regret, his imagery—such as “the passage which we did not take / Towards the door we never opened”—evokes a sense of paths unchosen and moments lost, suggesting an undercurrent of melancholy and reflection on missed opportunities.
This contrasts with my own perspective, which views the past not as a source of sorrow or lamentation but as a guide—a map to navigate the future. For me, the past should instruct us, not torment us. I focus not on what might have been but on the lessons that can inform where we must go next. As I recently discussed with one of my sisters, I learned more from my past failures, whether on school exams, work situations, or personal circumstances, than I did from my successes.
In short, regret is the most useless emotion.
Inspired by this distinction, I sought to explore these ideas poetically, offering a reflection on time that emphasizes the instructive value of the past rather than its potential to weigh us down with regret.
The Past Is but a Map
The past is not a chain of sorrow, Not the dust of what we might have been— But a map unfolding, Marked by lines of roads untaken. The tests we failed are etched more deeply Than triumphs where we passed unscarred. The echo of footfalls is not regret’s whisper But instruction pointing forward. The door unopened is not lamented But a path unseen, Waiting to instruct. Hard lessons carve deeper than easy ones; Each misstep, a mark of progress. The teacher we resisted Becomes the guide we heed. There is no torment in yesterday’s shadow, Only the light of what we must now become. Ever forward, we glance back— Not for grief, But for direction, For the past keeps its own counsel As we shape the days to come.
When I was but twelve years old and in the sixth grade, I was already a peculiar lad—of that, there can be no dispute. One of my distinct memories from that time is sharing with Miss Davis, my teacher, that I had purchased a dictionary, which I studied ardently each night to enrich my vocabulary. Even then, I was enamored with words and punctuation—the brick and mortar of literature and poetry—and I was learning as much about them as I could. A few years later, in high school, as I have noted elsewhere, a very dear educator, my sophomore English teacher Mrs. Calpin, honored me with a graduation gift: a thesaurus, in recognition of my love of words.
At college, I developed another peculiar habit, alongside acquiring yet another new dictionary. Whenever I coined a neologism (which I believed perfectly appropriate to do), I would record it on a sheet that I had inserted into the dictionary for future reference. That dictionary remains in my possession, though not readily at hand or in regular use, as will soon be explained. Otherwise, I would gladly provide an example of one of those neologisms.
After I finished college and law school, and was sufficiently recompensed as an attorney for the federal government, I indulged myself with the purchase of the complete hardbound set of The Oxford English Dictionary: Second Edition as well as the Historical Thesaurus of the Oxford English Dictionary. It is a safe assumption that few homes, indeed, few offices, possess either of these gems for consultation, let alone for regular use. But the wealth of words contained in these volumes—the backbone of a rich and wondrous language—is awe-inspiring. Not once have I regretted the sum spent on their purchase, nor the richness they have added to both my writing and knowledge.
This lifelong fascination with language, along with those dictionaries and thesauruses, naturally informs my choice of words in my prose writing and poetry, where every term is carefully considered. This serves as a preface and background to a brief note I would like to append to my poem Where is Am I?
Some who have read the poem may be struck by the verse:
The shadow of a shadow, a footfall lost to time’s soft track?
In particular, they may find footfall to be wholly unfamiliar. Of course, the vocabulary in the poem was not selected by happenstance; every word was chosen with deliberate care, and footfall was no exception. I hesitated only momentarily before selecting this word, but ultimately decided that context should guide the reader (or listener, as poems should always be recited after being read).
To clarify, I did consider alternatives such as step, trace, footprint, and mark, but I ultimately returned to footfall during the poem’s construction. Footfall is not a neologism; it appears in the Oxford English Dictionary (see accompanying image of the Oxford English Dictionary entry for footfall). Footfall refers to the act of stepping—the motion and sound of a foot hitting the ground—rather than the trace or mark left behind, such as a footprint. As such, footfall captures the fleeting nature of action itself, emphasizing the transitory motion rather than the lasting trace of a footprint.
Oxford English Dictionary: Second Edition – entry for footfall
To add another layer to my choice of footfall, it was not just the meaning but the sound of the word itself that carried significance. Again, poetry is to be recited, not just read. The soft, muted quality of the word, when spoken aloud, mirrors the quiet, almost imperceptible nature of the action it describes. The word begins with a gentle f sound, followed by a soft, cushioned ending—a fall that lands lightly, much like the act of stepping itself. It has an almost whispered quality, evoking the idea of a footstep that passes quietly through time, barely noticed before it fades entirely.
This auditory element of the word footfall reinforces the theme of impermanence in the poem. The word itself, in both sound and evanescence, fades even as it is spoken, much like the action it represents disappears into time’s soft track. The fleeting nature of footfall contrasts with the more solid, lasting impression suggested by alternatives like footprint or mark. Where those words imply something left behind, footfall emphasizes the moment of movement itself—the instant when the foot touches the ground, just before it lifts again, leaving no lasting trace.
It is this auditory resonance that made footfall the right choice for the verse, as it complements the poem’s exploration of the transient and fragile nature of human conscious presence and action in the universe. In pairing this word with time’s soft track, the verse captures the tension between motion and stillness, existence and disappearance, echoing the poem’s larger themes of impermanence and the passing of time.
This interpretation also explains my selection of the image of an eroding footprint, a fossilized mark in sand, as a visual metaphor for time’s imperceptible erasure of human presence, chosen to illustrate the poem. The image embodies the idea of humanity, an individual, attempting to leave a lasting mark, while acknowledging that even fossils, over time, are subject to the elements—in time’s soft track.
The word footfall also appears in T.S. Eliot’s Burnt Norton, the first of his Four Quartets. Eliot has been a favorite of mine since I first read Murder in the Cathedral at the age of twelve or thirteen. The specific lines containing footfall open Burnt Norton:
Time present and time past Are both perhaps present in time future, And time future contained in time past. If all time is eternally present All time is unredeemable. What might have been is an abstraction Remaining a perpetual possibility Only in a world of speculation. What might have been and what has been Point to one end, which is always present. Footfalls echo in the memory Down the passage which we did not take Towards the door we never opened Into the rose-garden. My words echo Thus, in your mind. But to what purpose Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves I do not know.
Recently, I have been revisiting Dante’s Divine Comedy, focusing specifically on Paradiso. This journey through Dante’s celestial spheres has inevitably planted within me thematic thoughts of hope, inspiring me to put pen to paper and author a new poem. This sudden burst of creativity, whether of any merit or not, has taken me by surprise. Nonetheless, I have relished the productivity, regardless of its outcome.
For several days, I awoke each morning with my mind fixated on the theme of hope, having pondered over the topic in my sleep with deliberate contemplation. Earlier this week, I awoke with a fully outlined sketch of a poem, realizing that hope, as a concept, evolves dramatically through the stages of life.
In childhood, hope is almost an unknown entity, as we scarcely need it, trusting that nearly every need and desire will be met. This is largely because our understanding of the world and its possibilities is limited. As we grow older, hope becomes more pronounced, with the belief that if we hope earnestly enough, we can obtain almost anything. In young adulthood, this transforms into the conviction that hard work will inevitably lead to the fulfillment of our hopes.
However, as we enter middle age, our perception of hope shifts once again. We begin to see it as a plea, tempered by the realities of justice and merit. By old age, if not earlier, we recognize that despite our hopes and best efforts, many who work hard are denied the fruits of their labor, and many who deserve much are denied their due. By the time silver graces our brow, a bemused smile often accompanies our thoughts of hope, seasoned by the wisdom of experience. We come to understand that hope should not be centered on what we aspire for, but rather on what we can give to others—justice, fulfilled dreams, love, acceptance, and comfort. These are the gifts that we once hoped for ourselves and now, perhaps, are in a position to bestow upon others. If we had any intelligence and kindness, we were doing so all along.
Reflecting on my college years, I recall considering myself an optimistic pessimist. Schopenhauer’s works on pessimism were light reading in those days. Despite this, I was not afraid to embrace hope, recognizing its necessity throughout life. This philosophical introspection led me to author a poem, which I have set to music courtesy of Udio.com. I am pleased with the results and plan to eventually set it to a worthy video. For now, it is available as an audio track with the lyrics provided below.
LYRICS TO “HOPE’S JOURNEY: A TAPESTRY OF LIFE”
Stage I: Childhood
In the garden of my youth, every dream was mine, Hope was just a whisper, a secret so divine. No need to chase the stars, they’d fall into my hand, In a world of endless wonders, a magic wonderland.
Chorus:
Hope, it morphs and changes, like the tides of life’s great sea, From dreams of youth to wisdom’s truth, in each phase we’ll see. In the tapestry of time, it weaves a story bold and true, Hope’s enduring presence, guiding us through all we do.
Stage II: Young Adulthood
As a young and daring heart, hope became my creed, Believing in the odds, I’d conquer every need. With faith and fierce conviction, the future seemed so bright, The power of my spirit, would always lead to light.
Chorus:
Hope, it morphs and changes, like the tides of life’s great sea, From dreams of youth to wisdom’s truth, in each phase we’ll see. In the tapestry of time, it weaves a story bold and true, Hope’s enduring presence, guiding us through all we do.
Stage III: Adulthood
In the prime of my endeavor, hope was like a flame, If I worked with all my might, I’d win the endless game. Justice and ambition, tempered with the real,* A dance of dreams and struggles, the balance I could feel.
Chorus:
Hope, it morphs and changes, like the tides of life’s great sea, From dreams of youth to wisdom’s truth, in each phase we’ll see. In the tapestry of time, it weaves a story bold and true, Hope’s enduring presence, guiding us through all we do.
Stage IV: Middle Age
In the heart of middle age, hope became a plea, An appeal to justice, to merit and integrity. Tempered by the trials, and the lessons learned in time, Hope was now a beacon, in a world less sublime.
Chorus:
Hope, it morphs and changes, like the tides of life’s great sea, From dreams of youth to wisdom’s truth, in each phase we’ll see. In the tapestry of time, it weaves a story bold and true, Hope’s enduring presence, guiding us through all we do.
Stage V: Old Age
In the twilight of my days, hope seems like a dream, A foolish, fleeting fancy, yet it makes me beam. A smile in reflection, of a life so richly lived, Hope was a companion, in the gifts that life could give.
Chorus:
Hope, it morphs and changes, like the tides of life’s great sea, From dreams of youth to wisdom’s truth, in each phase we’ll see. In the tapestry of time, it weaves a story bold and true, Hope’s enduring presence, guiding us through all we do.
Journey’s End:
So here I stand, at journey’s end, with hope a fading light, A smile upon my weathered face, as day turns into night. For hope has been my constant friend, through every twist and bend, A timeless song within my heart, until the very end.
* I have revised this line in Stage III for future “publications” to read: “Ambition was my compass, guiding through the real,” as it was too redundant of the thoughts and words in Stage IV.
Art Credits for the YouTube Video:
Stage I: Childhood
The Voyage of Life: Childhood (oil on canvas, 1842) by Thomas Cole (1801-1848). National Gallery of Art, Washington, D.C.
Stage II: Young Adulthood
Liberty Leading the People (oil on canvas, 1830) by Eugène Delacroix (1798-1863). Louvre Museum, Paris.
Stage III: Adulthood
The Fog Warning (oil on canvas, 1885) by Winslow Homer (1836–1910). Museum of Fine Arts, Boston.
Stage IV: Middle Age
Nighthawks (oil on canvas, 1942) by Edward Hopper (1882-1967). Art Institute of Chicago.
Stage V: Old Age
The Starry Night (oil on canvas, 1889) by Vincent van Gogh(1853-1890). Museum of Modern Art, New York.
Journey’s End
The Monk by the Sea (oil on canvas, 1808–10) by Caspar David Friedrich(1774-1840). Alte Nationalgalerie, Berlin.
The birch tree braves the winter’s icy grip, Its branches bare, white stark against the sky. It does not mourn the loss of leaves or gold, But waits with patience for the spring to nigh.
The birch tree knows the seasons wax and wane, Each carries purpose, beauty, grace, and pace. It does not fear the frost, the ice, the rain, But greets each one with elegance and grace.
My soul, like birch, endures and perseveres, To rise from earth to heaven’s radiant light. It stands unbowed, unbroken by the cold, But shines with faith and courage through the night.
From birch I learn to face life’s change and strife, To trust in self, let faith and courage guide.
Northcoast Antiquarian 