As a brief follow-on from my article in August please find below a classically styled modern poem lovingly crafted and aged in old oak barrels (I'm joking....about the barrels, of course).
The point being made is that this is what Joe Public calls poetry - rhyme, rhythm, metaphor that is recognizable and an empathic message. It takes a bit of patience and practice, but the real crafting of a poem is its own reward once the work is complete. Liken it to the carving of a fine statue. You get out only what you put in. Enjoy!
MERE MORTAL MAN
The tasks I must perform as routine every day
Just rob me of another brightly shining act.
My time on this poor planet surely melts away
The more I battle with the darkly morbid fact
That bitter tastes the irony in all our dreams,
The kernel of a nut no mortal man has cracked;
Too short our bodies’ lives to us it seems,
Our mind spans truly crippled by a time span sacked.
When youth had clothed my waking dreams an aeon back,
The Universe I owned, as well as hoary Time itself.
Vast glowing projects plotted for a grand attack,
And many more bright goals just waiting on the shelf.
It seemed Forever’s boundary lines could not be tracked,
Nor did that word Infinity have meaning in itself.
My grand achievements lying more in fiction than in fact,
The world my oyster, gleaming pearl all set in glistening gilt.
As I meandered on along Life’s winding coil,
A chunk of time would dissipate each sleepy night.
Plans and projects moving softly off the boil,
One by one they’d quietly vanish from my sight,
Replaced by daily deeds that paid me for my toil,
Necessities of bread and shelter, holding back my flight.
Bright beacons of my dreams and projects without oil
That only time can brew slipped slowly into night.
© Kim Randell
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