This poem needs work, but who has the time?

In the dash, in the plunge,
in the gallop and the lunge,
what is lost, abandoned, or betrayed?
Can we cling to the past,
lashed like sailors to the mast
while the hurricane of progress
escalates?
If we artists do our part,
depicting visions of the heart,
will we slow the pace of time
with our images and rhymes?
What happens if we relinquish
this crusade?

Once restored, now aged again

I photographed this boat in fog
some years ago; newly restored,
it was younger then, though older
than I am now; fresh and lovely,
bright and charming... and now,
now that I'm the age she was,
I see she is less cared for, worn,
as I, too, may someday be;
"Good bones," they'll say,
"too bad there's no one left
who'll take the time
to spruce her up."  Sadly, people,
unlike boats, can rarely be restored...

Mastodon

What shall we do
about this mastodon
in the living room?
And how do we reconcile
these blind descriptions
of the problem?
One says it's rough;
another it's hard, and sharp,
another says it's very like a snake...
What are the chances we'll ever recognize
this beast so deeply rooted in our past?

A little left of center

Just a little left of center,
there is so much to choose:
the gate, into a broader field
where right and wrong
and I and Thou are rolling into One,
or further still, another gimrack,
relic of a pointless shopping spree
for something plastic
to decorate reality, or,
farthest left of all, the killing vine,
blood-red, that leaps from tree
to tree and strangles any life
that dares to breathe or grow...

(written in response to a prompt from 3 from here and there .  Come over and meet Claire, Kelly, and Sarah -- and feel free to join the fun! )

Assumptions

Autumn -- though I've always loved it --
is assumed to be a season of loss:
there the leaves blaze up and fall,
baring the true branch that lies beneath;
here it is the sun that blazes
in glorious september sunsets,
only to sink behind a veil of gray,
buried for all winter and most of spring.
But what if loss is not solely
precursive to resurrection?
What if loss - even of hope - is in itself
a gift?  Why weep? Do not the gray
and bare have beauty of their own?

It is another Blog Carnival Tuesday.  Join in the fun and excitement at Peter's place. Today's One Word Prompt is SEASON.

Trite

I know: this image is as trite
as this poem will probably be.
It's all too easy these days
to capture a moment
with a cellphone.
But what photographer --
amateur or otherwise --
can resist the delicate tracery
of the wings, the softness
of the yellow fuzz;
the tiny nest of stars
and all those petals
cupped to drink the light?

Goodbye for now

And so, we say goodbye for now
to this, our home away from home;
to rolling hills and charming villages,
to graceful clapboard homes
and winding roads;
to trees, just beginning
to take on their autumn glow,
to rushing rivers,
still high and brown with clay,
to the echo of wide board floors,
and the soft hiss
of muslin curtains,
blowing in the breeze.