Best The Fates Poems
A new sunrise, a new time, a new day
Sunsets past, just a memory, time gone.
Yesterday we cannot live for, or pray
Tomorrows, there are many more, not none.
One body, one mind, one love, never late
The fates cruel, or be they kind instead.
To never love, how wrong, was that our fate?
To die unknown alone in a large bed.
Benevolent the fates have been to us.
Though many years too late, never shed tears
To writhe in pain and swear and cry and cuss
No we are one and will be down the years.
The fates were late, but kind when said and done
They gave us each other and we are one.
© 3/02/2014
Yucatan, etc.
Cortez, DeMille are gone.
It's now the locus
of postgraduate honeymoons,
urban fugues, a minor literary genre.
Knowledge and ejection predispose us
to technological parody--
antique busses, burros, plumbing, pyramids--
as if nothing ever caught on.
There is no CHRONOLOGY, the pace and mores
are too counterproductive--
poster Indians pee along the road,
the women never dust.
We like the Sartrean-Spanish askewness--
bugs, sex, dysentery, moonlight--
as if, though settled with us,
the Fates vacation here.
I don’t write Sonnets,
or Limerick verse
I don’t write Haiku,
though often terse
I don’t write Ballads,
or Horacian Odes
I don’t write Parables,
to self-implode
But I do write in Rhythm,
and often in Rhyme
With meaning that’s buried,
and metered in time
All verbal indenture,
I must disavow
For the meaning to rise,
—when the fates allow
(Villanova Pennsylvania: November, 2016)
The three Sisters
Are weaving ~
Caring not for your life;
Caring only for Their pattern.
Let The Fates Take Me
Please do not help me find my way
I do not think you could if you tried
I like not knowing where I am going
I like not knowing where I am
I like not knowing where I have been
So many questions down each road
Too many turns to make wisely
Not so many as to make them impossible
I just want to let the fates control me
Take me where they want me to go
I know one thing
They will take me somewhere I want to be
To Hades, black as ink, our souls shall sink,
And all our lives are gone within a wink!
Yet fleeting! E’er so fleeting! Though it be,
So well we love what leave the Fates decree.
Two fresh plates to adorn my humble chariot.
The one on top had the honor of being mounted at the front,
as my customary parking pattern
is to back into a space on the far side of the garage.
But soft ... was it an honor?
To be figurehead, first to see, noble vanguard,
and yet,
bombarded for countless hours by suicidal bugs,
dust, gravel, and mud.
The rear plate will soon be far cleaner,
and has the quiet, reflective view of what has passed.
Though it might wish for the electric thrill
of seeing things first.
I wonder which the plate on top would prefer,
if it had more claim than its fellow below.
But fate granted me judicial clarity.
Top is front; bottom is back.
Different fates - each with their own charm.
Grow not envious, o plates.
Your positions both have great beauty.
18 November 2022
I don’t write sonnets,
or limerick verse
I don’t write haiku,
though often terse
I don’t write ballads,
or Horatian odes
I don’t write parables,
to self-implode
But I do write in rhythm,
and often in rhyme
With meaning that’s buried,
and metered in time
All verbal indenture,
I must disavow
For the meaning to rise
—when the fates do allow
(Villanova Pennsylvania: November, 2016)
I watch the morning people
Freshly showered and caffeined
As they head into their day
While somewhere all the fates convened…
Deciding who would sink or swim
Or who would rise above,
Whose health or job would suffer
Or who’d find that one true love.
Each daybreak holds such promise
But as hours tick away,
We realize most of life takes place
Where we have zero sway.
I watch the evening people
Trudging slowly home from work.
There they’ll prep to face tomorrow
Where the fates already lurk.