Whose words these are I think I know.
My mind is on to pillage though;
To find something for blogging clear
Some thoughts that matter, not for show.
My blogmates all must think it queer
To see a poem this time here
With so much news of fraud and fake,
And daily tales of more to fear.
But now I think it’s time to wake
And trust there might be some mistake.
To hope somewhere beyond the sweep
There will be peace for all God’s sake.
We know what’s out there’s dark and deep.
And if we choose we all could weep,
But I prefer to pause to reap,
The promises men swore to keep.
*****
Of all the words Frost did compose.
The ones that hit it on the nose,
For how to live amid the whirl,
Are those his tombstone did unfurl:
“I had a lover’s quarrel with the world.”
Not a bad philosophy for all that’s about us these days.
|
Jeff—Saturday
Posts
Brilliant, Jeff! And something positive to contemplate for once, as you say...
ReplyDeleteThanks, Michael. And I used a youthful photo of Frost so we silver hair guys could contemplate youth along with hope.:)
DeleteYour take on Frost reminded me how hard it is to focus on the positive these days. Genetically we are programmed to react negatively as self-preservation, so it does take extra effort to enjoy and appreciate what we have in the moment.
ReplyDeleteYes, LOW, fight or flight is the instinct, but I'm just hoping for at least a few more of those moments when the mind of someone who can actually influence world events kicks in and says, "Hey, putz, we've evolved beyond this!"
DeleteI think Frost would forgive you. Humor and love make this world bearable. Very nice.
ReplyDeleteBUT you left out a critical third element: Lil Gluckstern's comments!
DeleteI'm blushing, you are the writer. I'm the appreciator.
ReplyDeleteI appreciate the wonders of the pen when in your hands.The magic that comes from in the mind..wander no more when shared for all to see and read. The Best from all the rest. Love you today,tomorrow and always...
ReplyDeleteB
Thanks, Cuz. Written exactly as dictated:).
DeleteReminds me of the epochal meeting between Frost and the equally silver-haired Carl Sandburg. After the latter visited Frost and spent the night, reporters assembled in the morning. Frost brought them coffee and when one of them asked where Sandburg was, Frost said, "He's upstairs, artfully disarranging his hair."
ReplyDeleteI miss you MR. T.
DeleteYou just come,
on little cat feet.
And sit looking,
over ardor and witty,
with silent hunches,
and then move on.