A soul is light despite its age,
well-rested ‘neath a wrinkled brow,
where marks of smiles coalesced
that years of hardiness had endowed;
Each line, each crease, a legacy
oft’ crudely drawn in deeds forgettable,
yet gleaned afar the picture bears
a peace with self, serene and gentle;
No doubt do losses in years pain,
and yearn for youth as hard if offered,
yet there’s enough to keep at night
reflecting fond’ each mark’s reminder.
I still have more to do, more marks to make. Enjoy and appreciate the memories I’ve had the blessing to receive. Then look forward and start anew.
Temptations strong and frequent call
upon the conscious thought to justify,
but sovereign in destruction to them all
are those so borne of righteous pride —
How right you are, and wrong they were,
awaiting missteps of their movements,
that warnings, pleadings, couldn’t deter
until the moment’s past for action —
And so you get what you deserve,
a recognition of your foresight’s prowess;
pity hindsight has but little worth
beyond the mess you both must cleanup.
So gloat away, you stroke your pride for free:
never mind another lost their dignity.
Needs work, especially after stanza one. Dangerous way to end, easy to mistake the tone and intentions out-of-context. But there’s a frustration there to capture, judgment-free if possible.
The field was fertile, blank and soft,
where dews and dawnings intermixed,
as farming hands placed one by one
the hopes of future months and weeks.
Yet pangs, impulsive, bested some,
unsteady as the wistful ways of hope,
would leave the field and harvest’s sum
unkempt despite their well-intended love.
And days there were in harshest heat,
as days there were of rain and thunder,
and some would grow despite it all
as others wilt despite no blunders.
Most tragic are those calloused hands
for whom all effort brought just pain,
some seasons overwhelm the senses
beyond the bounds of comprehend;
may trusted hands help ease the sorrow
and share in solidarity some grains.
But still some hands did managed
an order ‘midst the season’s churns,
imparting all the sweat they could
for honest pride and pennies in return.
And so passes by the months and weeks
‘til hovered bright the harvest moon,
when hands in sweat, in pain, or careless,
gather in seeds of their legacy’s boon.
This might have been the longest one I’ve ever written, time-wise too. At least two poems’ worth of ideas here, but ultimately decided it made more sense as one cohesive whole. With some work, this piece has potential.
Why speak of hours dead,
your hourglass’s not cracked,
an office hour idled spent
is still an hour left to act —
Though daylight ends at cue
and freedom’s beyond reach,
the realm of knowledge sprawls
beyond a desk-job week.
And yet, I feel so rushed composing this at work. Why so?
When hours for your own are few,
and hours owed are all beside,
haggling sleep for time begins
to seem a gift divine and wise —
But sure enough, every next day,
the dullness, dead dependence
begs you cease — yet still,
you trade the coming night away,
against your wiser penchant —
The hidden taxes tally up though,
as days in stretches are put forth,
and even coffee must to time concede
when worldly hubris crumble in fatigue.
Forced productivity has rarely worked in my favor, and yet…how else to find more space between the clock?
One promise made too many,
though not by its own weight,
but only to compete a prior
adopted in a sadder phase;
But no one else has heard it!
A mental note rehearsed at best,
that reading now, I should discard,
were it so easy to erase regret;
And knowing how impossible
to service two opposing hosts,
I outward pledge the second…
while lurks the real foremost.
Potential here. I guess there’s always potential in conflict and drama, which is precisely the problem.