Pick your fights wisely my friend.
You may pretend
That you can stop the clock.
Of course, you may
The clock’s hands stay,
Or mock time
In a rhyme.
But, in the end
Your inner clock
Will stop,
My friend.
We may
Never see tomorrow.
For each moment we borrow.
And tomorrow’s sun
Must become,
Today.
Time passes
In women
And glasses.
“What is sinning?”
The religious ask.
“Does it exist?”,
I reply.
Theologians persist,
“All this will pass”.
While poets smile
And compose a rhyme
To many a pretty lass,
And time
Which does so quickly pass.
They have fun
In the sun.
Their perfect
Bodies reject
The fact that they
Will grow old.
Where I to be bold
And say,
“All this will pass
Away”,
Lad and lass would laugh.
Though, perhaps a thoughtful few
Would say
“That’s true.
But we must
Enjoy our day
Ere we are dust”.
And I would nod,
And go away.
I walk the man-made
Woodland path,
Where past
Lovers played.
Today, lovers still laugh,
And sigh.
Whilst I
Pass by
An old oaktree,
Which has stood
In this ancient wood,
Long before, them, and me.
On a beautiful spring night
I heard, with some delight
The gentle tick tock
Of a long deceased clock.
Time is always there.
Yet I care
For the tick tock
Of an individual clock.
Each, separate timepiece
Must,
One day
Cease.
And I shall go away,
And all the philosophy discussed,
Shall turn to dust.
I
Walked the woodland path
And passed
By
Tall, slender flowers.
Now I
Traverse, in verse
That self-same path,
And grow flowers
In my mind.
The flowers
May be gone tomorrow.
For I find
That we borrow
Time.
True, many a rose
Has been emmortalised in rhyme
But the poet knows,
That he has limited time.
The daisies remain,
Although not the same
As those I saw
Carpetting Nature’s floor,
When, as a child
I ran wild
And free.
I can almost see
The Daisy Chain,I made from nature’s great store.
Better to have left them on her green floor.
As it is much easier to disrupt than construct.
And the chain I composed
On the school playing field
Did yield
To time.
Am I arrogant to suppose
That this little rhyme
May outlast the brief hour
Of a daisy flower?
When the tick tock
Of the clock
Does stop,
I have found
That it is nothing profound,
For a clock
Is easily rewound.
The chime
Of my old, staid
Clock, does remind
me that there is a debt
To be paid.
But time,
Ends all regret.
