I was going through some drawers today, trying to consolidate and get rid of whatever I really didn’t need. I gain a certain satisfaction in doing this. I don’t like clutter – even the clutter that is hidden from view.
Much to my surprise, I found an old poem of mine that I wrote when only 19. While reading it, it made me realize how thoughtful and serious about life I was at that young age. Second surprise.
SIMILE: LIFE’S CLOCK
One of the most worrisome
Questions of them all
Is: Who dares to take from
That imperious clock on the wall,
Flagrantly, the right or the might,
If I may with permission add,
To capture the Seasons or Day’s light;
And finding none about this glad?
Now, as it comes to my bother,
I find that each and every
One of us, in one way or another,
For no reason or for every,
Is attempting the utilization
Of this time force
To find only sheer futilization
And, the agony of loss
In the repression of active mind:
Of full hopes; brave dreams; and pure souls.
So we sit: we turn and wind;
Trying to perceive far-away goals.
Why does one to no avail
Conceive and plan without some cares
For we servants, who shall fail
Our future mark; cursed by he who dares?
Time is neither girl nor man:
At dawn, it’s naive and new;
At dusk, it’s a wizened broad hand,
Sweeping out remnants of a life we knew.
Life is to fate as fate is to life:
We are all of us destined to an end.
There is goodness and yes there is strife;
Whatever, the hands of the clock an eternity lend.
~ Carol Carlson
[image from bingdotcom]