Futile Poem by Pamela Davison

Red-wine melodies
And moon-light visions,
Painted moments
Of my best memory,
Live among the swamps
Where midnight climbs cypress trees,
The bounty-hunter
Of my childhood.

There,
Water-moccasins and alligators
Are much prettier
Than the human atrocities
I’ve encountered
Since first wandering
From those familiar lands,
So savage and sweet.

Now I find
The disappearing marsh
My preferred salvation,
Scented with an integrity
Humanity would not understand.
For the raw temperament
With which I exist
Is unmatched by foreign element.

I’d rather smell the discontent
Of an unspoiled bayou
Than the wetlands
Of man’s superficial
Acknowledgement,
Yet I am an unwilling criminal
To the crimes
Wrought upon my nature.

Would, if I could,
Find balance between
The cicada’s recital
And the beauty of humanity,
If only in a glimmer.
I’d walk in both worlds,
Satisfied and complete,
Without hesitation.

But for the force
Gleaming within the impossible,
I am left to flounder
Within red-wine melodies
And moon-light visions,
Emotive motivations
Prompting my pen
Into futile action.

What heartbreaking agony
To witness the last
Of mangroves
Where I’d sooner die
Than see my great-grandchildren
Live without knowing
Such eloquence
Of genuine statement.

From where I stand
There can be no substitution
For the memory lost
To progress
And I, too,
Will fade away,
A tribute
Blurred by time.