November, the Last - Poem
November the Last
By David Roth
© 30th November, 2010
How the year has flown
and the seasons changed,
not as much from what they are
as from what they were
and how I remember them.
Winter should be cold,
filled with laughing
and giggling as they ride
plastic garbage can lids
at breakneck pace
down an icy white hill.
Spring should be fresh and new,
the rebirth of nature,
the awakening of the frost weary spirit
to the sounds of birds,
the smell of flowers,
and the promise of things to come.
Summer should be hot, humid and stormy,
filled to overflowing with picnics,
fireworks, and echoes of ‘Play Ball’!
Autumn, the most regal of the seasons,
draped in an emperor’s array of endless color,
celebration, harvest moons and hard cider,
should be the crowning glory of the marching year.
It’s what I remember, and how it should be,
yet this year; this season; seems all so much
more and more of the same old, same old.
Depressing, tedious shadows of things
that once were, way back in the past
recalled today, November, the last.
- Hi David
Know what you mean old son but looking back on what was and what might have been is a fruitless exercise.
We castigate ourselves with "if only" but it's too late, the horse has bolted and we are left with an empty stable, but wait, what is that I see on the horizon, as fine a filly as ever there was, fresh as a daisy and raring to go.
Methinks I'll coax her with a bowl of warm mash liberally sprinkled with Molasses, then once inside my stable I'll secure the door and prepare her for a bright future with a new master to ride into a sunrise of delights.
Lush green meadows and sweet water from a rippling brook.
The past will be forgotten, the present will be an exciting introduction to a future laden with agreeable wonderment.
I am reminded of Macbeth:
"Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out brief candle
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more; it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
David I trust your future seasons will bring you happiness and more poetry to enrich this site.