This poem was meant to be a whimsical little piece on the nature of hussle-bussle and goal oriented world that the U.S. has been accused of being. From de Tocqueville to today we have famously earned the reputation of giving our children goals before they are even born. I think our contemporary time is worse than ever before. Complicate that with our hedonistic desires and staggering deficits and borrowing habits, we are passing a bill onto them that they will never be able to work off. I hope you will enjoy my little peom, though it is more of an auto-biography, I fear….
When shall I ponder thee, Life?
Your treasures abound yet my
hand’s tightly bound to
this rudder found – at birth.
The taskmasters wait
at every passing gate
and I haven’t a moment to give.
Their blinders on straight and
their goals chasing haste –
I’ve barely a breath left to live.
When, sweet Life, may I ask without strife,
of your glory and blessed concern?
May I sneak in the night, like a fleeing thief might,
to hear your story and learn?
Or must I wait upon the edge of ever,
and risk the chance to forever sever
the hopes and dreams I’ve been taught to yearn?
Oh, dear Life, if all were but goals,
and the world filled with but ragged-run souls,
then what is our purpose here?
For if we shant find
a moment in kind
to explore your best complexities,
Then we should be lashed to post
as does our dog’s unkind host
and be robbed of your kindest amenities.
So to you I vow
I will hold your hand in mine.
You will tell me
And I will tell you,
and somehow our stories will unwind….
|The butterfly counts not months but moments,
and has time enough.
copyright John Richter, 2013