I have time.
I won’t be rushed.
Or maybe not,
Don’t matter much -
For which of all my selfish acts
Will live on after me?
Will two dates upon a tombstone
Be my entire legacy?
Will any of my poems
Survive when I am dust?
Or will my ink melt into paper
Like metal melts to rust?

Time will tell.
And we will wait.
Or maybe not,
Depends on fate -
For which of all the famous men
From generations past
Created in their lifetime
Legacies that last
What novels fill the bookshelves
Built on library walls?
And whose portraits hang in silence
In dark museum halls?

Oh to build a monument
To immortalize myself -
To have my portrait on a wall, or
My novel on a shelf
My poems in a library for
Everyone to read -
Mortality is measured;
Confuse it not with greed.
For your face upon a mountain,
If chiseled by yourself
Is no better than a novel
Which stands alone upon your shelf.

Can you name your Grandma’s Grandpa?
Was he a good, and loving man?
Did his name live after he was gone?
Tell me if you can, for
Mortality is measured
We each get our fair share
Put your face upon a mountain –
See if anybody cares.    
Phil Lindsey, 8/21/15