Life's Breathe Seethe Wreath Game Is Gamble Poem by Jonathan ROBIN

Is hand that guide's life ride tide certified
as chance advance dance, choice for free voice or
some pre-determined causal fate-date law
scarce space to face, trace pace, before breath died.
Trigger finger momentum from inside
is wrought. Or is thought channelled to restore
earth's basic balance, funnelled from deep core
translating access from some unknown guide
foreknowledge sharing from Atlantean tide
to override resistance to change score
to offer harmony, Beethoven score,
or pave the way for links that coincide
to draw together synchronicity
providing basis for serenity?

Life's game is gamble, many cards are held
close to Fate's heart whose trumpet trumps. The odds
are clearly stacked in favour of the Gods.
Inpiration breathes fresh impetus to meld
energies which, channelled, are beheld
to fire ambitions onwards, upwards: nods
before vainglory sinks beneath the sods
and only phantom memories are spelled
by living ghosts, who are themselves compelled
to tread too soon same way with weary plods,
the road of No Return. Death’s finger prods
recalcitrants, saints, sinners, equal knelled.
No Joker may be played as panacea,
shared harmony adversity can conquer.

Thin red deadline dividing debt
from freedom's thread fails, hammer falls,
hope lies, shattered, wreathed heart upset.
Assets are scattered, what recalls
joys' flashbacks, options carefree met,
when vain ambition's promise palls?
It's all too tempting to forget
fair future's light when darkness calls,
leaves breath's thrust in trust to must, rust. Yet
although brain's stormed by unkind squalls,
fears falling, fumbles facing fret,
life's slings and arrows, faith's wraith galls,
bank checks blank cheque, foreclosure's threat:
another chance to breath, to bet?
Win spins weal's wishing wheel from rough,
scales tough jail walls, calls fate's bait bluff.