Philosophy - Matters Little If At All
PHILOSOPHY - MATTERS LITTLE IF AT ALL
Whether lapping wave band foam bath,
thunder clap, tsunami tall,
weather warm or glacier calf,
matters little, if at all.
Whether old one passes over,
young unsung, berth premature,
silver spoon and four leaf clover,
or homeless, wan, naught can endure.
Laments unheeded, red rims beaded
with emotions on the fly,
strangers never know they needed,
nor regrets, nor passing sigh.
Who with motives honed for getting,
never letting go of aim,
last laugh's left with time, forgetting,
fame's flame, game's name, wild or tame.
All's the same, what clock recording
second thoughts docked, time-lock knocked,
self-centeredness proves vain, affording
little leeway when boat's rocked.
Palm tree dates' anticipation
appetites encourage though
few know what matters, grief, elation
equal prove when fast moves slow.
Template telomeres with aging
evolution's leaps ensures,
one mutation disengaging
from another - naught endures.
Whether bright illusion shatters,
big head shed when will walks small,
ermine, mink, or patchwork tatters,
little matters if at all.
Ghost of Christmas present, past or
future perfect spun or spurned,
shepherd, wolf in pastor's pasture,
mess is earned, world less concerned.
Aeons long or echo fleeting,
naught completing, mocking glass,
mirage little else repeating
besides 'I thought I thought I passed! '
High and mighty host unpleasant,
guest of unguessed worth, to earth
soon consigned, resigned, peer, peasant
give redemption widest girth.
Polished pebble tide toned, rounded,
priceless gem, physique homespun,
each as sand ends, bright dreams grounded
in oblivion undone.
Weathered monumental gravings
time jeers, grime sneers, climb hastes fall,
joyless jaded, constant cravings,
lust's treat dust meets, swallows all.
Seldom sense in destination
is revealed, within the way
purpose lies peregrination
in, of, through itself holds sway.
Whether generations flourished,
shared, bore brunt of grunt or gall,
prospered hale, failed, wailed ill-nourished,
matters little, if at all.
23 April 2010
poem by Jonathan Robin
Added by Poetry Lover
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