Don’t give up. Photo by Gabriela Palai.
As you walk the lonely road. . .
Mile after mile
Without expected blessing,
This may be your trial.
But if you’ve done what you can
And still must wait awhile;
Don’t give up my faithful friend—
Delay is not denial.
“Come into my parlor,” said the spider to the fly.
“There’s a special treat I would love you to try,
And a prettier parlor you never will see. . .
Come in, come in, and dine with me!”
So goes an old story of deception and lies;
You know how it ends—one of them dies.
Easter, yes, that holiday
That signals start of spring—
That marks rebirth, renewal,
And all that sort of thing.
It brings bouquets of flowers
In yellows, pinks, and blue,
And cheerful eggs that have been dipped
In dye of every hue.
One year older. . .but wiser too? Photo by Jordan Benton.
A look to the past—reflection!
A page of life has turned.
From all my many yesterdays,
There’s much that I have learned.
Doing laundry is such a chore.
Sort the colors? I ask what for?
Then throwing whites with red and green,
I toss them all in the wash-machine.
But all my smugness turns to dread
When all the whites go tie-dye red!
The Music Man sits;
The Music Man plays—
While the busy old world
Goes about its ways.
And very few pause
To hear the song;
They don’t have patience
To wait that long.
Author’s Note: To be clear, I do not think that the current difficulties we are facing signify the end of the world! However, the disruption to normal life caused me to remember these thoughts I jotted down a couple of years ago. Though at first this poem may seem disheartening, at a time when many things seem out of our control, what is in our control is who we become. And that is encouraging indeed.
How will it be when it ends,
When it ends . . .
How will it be when it ends—
When Hell is unleashed and with murder contends;
How will it be when it ends?
Deep in fairy forest,
A cheery fire burns—
Around it dance the leprechauns
With mesmerizin’ turns.
Their ginger hair a swirlin’,
They sing of misty dreams,
Of brilliant archin’ rainbows,
Of gold that ever gleams.
What raises the crawling caterpillar
Above the common plain,
Allowing her to soar above
And lofty heights obtain?
Another night, another week,
Dark and gray and even bleak
With snow and ice and bitter cold,
As Summer’s sun and warmth is sold
For Winter’s windy, chilly blast,
That seems to last. . .
And last and last.
Once Upon A Rhyme 