Treasure Island

Jonathan ROBIN

(22 September / London)

Sum Here's Rubaiyat


Another season sweats its final hours,
life’s windfall petals fall, residual powers
fade as fades cold year’s frost fragile span:
scared angel at prayer's cradle, frightened, cowers.

Another winter of our discontent
succeeds an autumn Indian summer lent,
precedes weak spring which speeds weeks in advance,
stretching some seasons out of kilter, bent.

Tomorrow feels pale veiled tomorrow’s frost,
obscured from view to multitudes cue lost
tossed shortened days foreshadow shortened lives:
though who’d protect small souls ne'er counts the costs.

Is end-of-days Aquarius close at hand
to close one chapter, tomb tome to disband,
or are uncertainties and current doubt
reflections on approaching promised land?

I saw myself in waking dream beside
swift river flowing out to meet ebb tide,
wave to fresh waves waved greetings as they passed
out to the ocean’s gullet open wide.

For those who versify upon world's ways,
dumb who hide glum sum of spendthrift days,
dread reckoning is read ahead of time
which swallows hollow men, reed piper pays.

For many years some push capricious luck,
star in lead role familiar to Puck,
they 'balance all, bring all to mind' self signed
the years behind seem lame, a game unstuck.

Some 'sleep upon the midnight with no pain'
before watch tick tock tickles light again
no hopes to raise the ghost of Christmas Past,
of Christmas-Yet-To-Come, what hopes remain?

Some tilt at windmills vouchsafe glory vain,
some seek in spotless soul without a stain
redemption though they, anxious, stand aghast
to see inequity extend its reign.

Some, sere upon the stump, pump acid rain.
some, weary, live life backwards, joyous gain
is seen as firefly weaving over grass
a mirage [b]light highlighting fright’ning wane.

Mankind has much destroyed, and squandered more,
not least of Time the sum, for shore to shore,
through ‘Act of God’ or self destructive war,
societies are shaken to their core.

A watershed approaches which will show,
no tears for wasted years, for wastrel crow
wide world won’t wait, increasingly is faced
with options polluted, scarce a star to glow.

As ice floe meltdown caps historic lows,
our melting pots are stirred, change cyclone blows,
tornado, twisters trip our twisted trip
submerging cities 'neath tides' ebbs and flows.

Exacerbating man’s mistakes time's tide
tsunami turns, brash mortals brushed aside,
we're greedy flies, feed from weed biomass,
sink dust forgotten, pride by Nature tried.

There’s no hobgoblin, there’s no angel guide,
no paradise 'mid glories starry skied,
cock crows deriding those by Tavern Door:
‘Heaven’ and ‘Hell’ lie only in life’s ride.

Submitted: Tuesday, January 28, 2014
Edited: Tuesday, January 28, 2014

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Poet's Notes about The Poem

(29 December 1995 revised 12 November 2006 expanded 26 August 2007 and 20 November 2008)

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