willys_watson (unmired) wrote in rejectedpoets,

A first draft of a new poem ... now edited.



What does not frighten the young boy will seldom
grow to torment the man he must soon become.

Sitting on a porch on a humid autumn
evening I thought about this and in doing
so unleashed a torrent of distant memories.

Though childhoods grown are never perfectly lived,
the moments that sustained us are those moments
that offered small comforts and securities.

Thoughts of wars, wives, the context of adult lives,
the setbacks and the gains, the joys and the pains
were given short reprieve by this autumn sky.

On the last day of my return to the home
they say we can’t return to, this Texas night
was taking me back to a distant time when

sitting on another porch, where life gave us
a safe haven from nature’s more violent side,
we watched in awe as the sky pounded it’s chest.

Tonight it afforded me a return to
those moments of comfort and security
when thunder and chain lighting strutted their best.

But as the awe returned reflections followed,
compelling me to consider the autumn
of a life being lived from Point A through B,

while thunder turned to metaphor to taunt me
now as “a tale told by an idiot, full
of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”

What frightens a grown man is his fear that his
life lived has not signified nearly enough.

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