Ick, what a wasteland I created this month! Only 5 postings, some creativity!!?? But I shall not miss the tradition: a poem on the last day of the month.
Refuting Steinbeck’s Admonition
Most lives extend in a curve. There is a rise of ambition, a rounded peak of maturity, a gentle downward slope of disillusion and last a flattened grade of waiting for death.
John Steinbeck, The Pastures of Heaven
So this is it?
I dream, I wake, I doubt, I mope, and I die?
Wherein the faith
that my words and actions
mean hope to someone who walks behind?
Why do blue sky and green carpet warm my day,
why the cardinal chirp or the cat purr,
of what use are the smiles those bring to me?
All cannot rush grimly downhill after I wish for more.
Prufrock’s coachman can be a happy reaper,
not just the grim locksmith on a dark four score room --
I can leave more for him to read from my ledger.