Sunday, December 14, 2008

Poetic maybe, Limerick a little, Wordsworth I’m Not

Wisdom Literature

I woke up today as always, early and with lots to do.
No board rooms, reports, speeches to write but still my 24/7 fills up tight.
Unwritten on my schedule are a coffee, inbox check, CBC classical and a morning walk
By that time Christine is up, has made the bed, is cutting fruit and can abide quiet talk.
These retirement days run into one another like fluid watercolours on a page.
Sipping a cup I read and write and sit at my easel until I nap and act my age.
I still feel like I need permission to be so relaxed, so free, sorry that’s me.
The other day I asked Christine again whether it’s okay
For me to read a novel, take a drive, spend some hours just for play
And she told me that my time was mine and I don’t have to be anywhere for anyone.
It’s taken a long time to arrive at this place that I am finding to be so much fun.

There once was a man named Ron
Who thought he had it done
To his surprise
God opened his eyes
To nurture his small grandsons.

I can’t escape the sense that time
Has sped clutching me through years
Until at age sixty-six I’m
Filtering memories with tears
Of gratitude that life’s so good
Containing more joy than I think it should.

I’m humbled at my privilege in life
In contrast with the deprivations,
Hatred, cruelty and strife
Evident in this world of nations.
I’m sure that God will yet use me.
With favour comes responsibility.

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