Posted by: Ron DuBour | May 1, 2015

Daily missive for Friday the 1st of May.~by Peter Forster


 

 

Daily missive for Friday the 1st of May.

I am still here.
On this day,
When spring is meant
To open its door to summer.
And to be fair,
The sun is shining on
Two homely blackbirds, nest building
In the corner of the garden,
Hidden by a spurt of new growth.
Passion fruit and buddlijea,
The spiral of stems
Keeping them from fat cats
On a daily prowl,
Padding across territory
Long marked with
Sprays of feline ownership,
Wary of strangers
In their neighbourhood.
The birds come and go with caution,
It is likely the nest is full,
As their flights are timed
To follow, one after the other.
They carry worms
To feed their young,
And I keep my distance,
Too afraid to upset
The fragile economy of this family.
Instead, I shake my head
And wonder

What it is I am doing.
This presence, feels so inadequate
An existence.
A pretence I perpetrate
With every line,
Every time,
Whenever I write.
What foolish thought
Brings me to this
Central consideration.
My life is little more
Than the sum
Of the part it plays
In this continual
Self-delusion.
Unlike birds that fly and swoop
My work is largely done.
I no longer forage or provide,
My home is long since built.
Food is on the table
And in this moment
When, with purpose
Not so easily self determined,
I turn my mind to foolish
Thoughts.
Is this just the stuff
Of nonsense,
With more than just
A tiny little pinch of hubris.
To pitch these thoughts
Outside my self,

As much in hope as wonder.
Should they be snuffed out,
Or should I cling, as tightly
As I can
To the belief that
One day they will matter.
In this world,
That looks to youth
And glamour,
Sates its own appetite
By drowning out the
Sound of a gentle voice,
And fills the void
With its own empty,
Self-deception
Dressed as progress.
What difference my
Tangential observation,

When so many
Well crafted words
Have gone unheard before,
Beauty, laid out by so many
Better placed than I,
To make a worthy contribution,
And yet,
So easily ignored.
Perhaps what talent I possess
Would be better
Tuned to my own progress,
And somewhere, deeply lost
In the meandering of this
Long address, find a way
To cross the nature
Of this banal landscape
And write the words
That will, finally set me on
A right and proper purpose.


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