The original plan was to be very concrete
The original plan was to eradicate poverty from the bloodline
To live the life my fathers couldn’t cement
Today, there’s a twist to the original storyline
Coming across money is near impossible
Very educated but still unemployed
Employed but still under paid
Plans and dreams slowly getting decayed
The ones in power immediately forget the vows they swore
The vows they swore when they were given the mandate
The mandate for the betterment of wretched lives
Lives that once shined very bright
bright, but are now dimmed by the fog of poverty
Poverty that’s stuck on the lives of us like fleas
It’s sad to realize that , there’s no help so we flee
We have to flee , for safety , for better lives
Lives that our motherland cannot support
For our dreams to be on track , to become a reality ,
We have to relive , readdress and fight for our original plans .
I wandered lonely as a cloud "
~William Wordsworth ~
Wandering lonely I am a lost soul
Drifting never settled down
Begin to think was never whole
Never complete so lost not found
Sadly was blind to simple fact
My thinking was not quite intact.
Aimless years wasting precious time
Time not well spent I do admit
Frittered away years 'twas a crime
Now I am feeling quite bereft
Was all my fault I do confess
is it too late to readdress?
Not anchored my spirit drifting
Around the yew trees, I linger
Amorphous thoughts unremitting
Yet, a sliver of hope lingers
As I humbly wait for redemption
Universe makes no exception.
Pixabay image by: Mazoka
I found the letter in my father’s desk,
While sorting through his things after he died.
The writing was a style called “Romanesque”—
With letters shaped unusually wide.
My grieving heart was heavy, wrapped in gloom,
Alone, within his home in Baltimore.
A single desk lamp lit the shadowed room
As I removed the letter from the drawer.
I’ve heard it said, “You can’t go home, again.”
So true—and yet the job had to be done.
With words inscribed as with a broad-nibbed pen,
The envelope was addressed “To My Son.”
Inside I found a letter, frayed and worn,
My grandfather had written years ago.
“My dearest Son,” it said, “When you were born
“I held you in my arms, then watched you grow
“Into the man you are today. Well done!
“You made me proud!” Then, underneath, a few
Words written by my Dad to me, “My Son,
“I readdress this note: From me to you.”
It's quiet tonight only the witterings
of grasshopper legs for company.
The sun has dipped leaving dark
blue tones with slate grey slabs
spanning the horizon. The pool is
motionless, orange balls sit like
flames on water, reflections of the
rustic village lamps.
This is the time I sit with my God
and ask him of the day, a day of
days like so many have passed.
In the emptiness I pass words, ask
questions, try and readdress the
significance of my existence. To
this point I am like everyone else,
but cannot help feeling I am like
no other.
I toil with many aspects, love, faith,
humanity to name a few, on the edge
a smiling face , inside chewed, torn
by a lifetime of compromises dealt
by fates hand. Some may say you
are too late in life to be asking,
accept, but is not acceptance
giving in to the mundane.
So I pick myself and my conscience
up and head for home, leaving the
wittering of grasshopper legs to mull
over the unanswered questions, for I
am sure he was not there, never has
been in the past, but the next quiet
time I will try again, as we all do
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