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November, the Last - Poem

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  • David Roth
    November the Last By David Roth C 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
    Message 1 of 2 , Nov 30, 2010
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      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

      throwing snowballs

      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.

       

       

      David Roth

      Tampa Writing Examiner

      Obscurities BLOG

      727-505-8260

       

    • Wings081
      Hi David 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
      Message 2 of 2 , Dec 1, 2010
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        Hi David

        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,
        Signifying nothing."

        David I trust your future seasons will bring you happiness and more poetry to enrich this site.

        As always
        Wings
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