When casting off we have no fears,
with youth and strength well fortified,
inside we’re older than our years
with dreams as yet to be denied.

Flags flying we set sail at speed,
horizons beckon far ahead,
of compasses we have no need,
forgetting all our parents said.

Foul winds may blow us far off course,
yet breasting powerful waves with zest,
no time to stop or feel remorse,
we tell ourselves it’s for the best.

We hit the doldrums now and then,
time hanging heavy on our hands.
Such stagnant doleful days are when
we feel no other understands.

But then a fresh new breeze will start,
and ease us forward carefully,
as gladly we again take heart,
and launch ourselves against life’s sea.

Yet over time strength fades away
until at last there is no more
and inwardly we spend our days
just drifting to that unknown shore.


Poetry – memo to self

a rhymer’s style is one that’s neat
following form and counting feet
free-versers claim their way is better
no need to follow to the letter
some poems only seem to ramble
endless screeds all in a tangle
esoteric styles depress me
grandiloquence just don’t impress me

so what’s the best thing I can do
(the point of this iambic stew)
read those I love and worry less
write from the heart – not to impress