Keith Bickerstaffe Poet Verse

A Stranger To the Seasons

Starved of work his sharpened blade
is dulled by anonymity,
feckless, drifting here and there,
he has no true identity,
time has no fidelity,
and space has no consistency,
he has no frames of reference to rely on. 
 
Work is the measure of the man,
his strengths and limitations.
Now, shrunken wallet, shineless shoes
and shrinking reputation,
a shadow of his former self,
a soulless apparition
wholly spent, a stranger to the seasons.

♡Like0

Share Poem

---

Post Comments

Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.

Please Login to post a comment

Andrea Dietrich July 3, 2012 at 9:02 PM WOW, this is SO good, Keith. It's exactly what men today are feeling. My husband used to be self employed with a framing business. We never made loads of money but we did much better than today. My hubbie is not himself any more. YOu really captured that thing that makes a man a "stranger to the seasons," you word master, you!

Ilene Bauer July 3, 2012 at 3:42 PM very powerful and sad at the same time, which is hard to pull off. a wonderful and thought-provoking poem...

Phyllis Babcock July 3, 2012 at 2:39 PM A awesome poem Keith. You could feel the shrinking of self worth as he becomes a stranger to the seasons. We can see this happen when the economy falls. Well done. love phyl

Nette Onclaud July 3, 2012 at 12:20 PM such gripping write and i felt the words of reality from start to finish... good use of alliteration as well... remarkable!..:) huggs!