John Anderson Poet Rhyme

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Forks in the Less Walked Roads

I learn to hold a rose’s thorn,
without a flinch, without the scorn,
To withdraw warmth from tempered spring,
Coiled within a cold, hard steel ring.

In alleys closed by brick and stone,
I press my ear for echoes’ tome.
Sometimes the stone rings hollow—
Hidden behind a door I can't follow.

I set my old names down, one by one.
Confronting eyes I once would shun.
Their gaze now soft, no longer sears,
as I open up and forgo my fears.

I burn the mold that confined me,
kneeling in the ash of sympathy.
I cast new shapes in bold new forms.
From old and odd, to more usual norms.

Maps show pathways with ragged ends.
Roads with kinks and sudden bends.
Each one leads to a blind dead-end.
Or forks where pathways refuse to mend.

My demand for perfection in advance.
Often falls flat at first glance.
For why wait too long for redress?
When you know, you can't stop progress!

Instead, I'll take what each step becomes.
Choosing each new turn as it comes.
Always moving forward into the light.
Ignoring shadows and impending blight.

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