Wainwright’s Wheel’s Weal Rights Wane Poem by Jonathan ROBIN

Wainwright’s Wheel’s Weal Rights Wane



Though tales turn legends over time,
and myths begin when legends fade,
what part of myth with truth may rhyme,
what soul against sole feather weighed
may find past actions well repaid?
When all’s said, done, deeds scarce sublime.

Life desert seems till time to go
with post deserted on the job,
far from youth's spinning vertigo
age makes do with conditioned lob,
cobber clobbered ends as slob
beneath Time's sands, tune dune blown woe.

Strife's tragedy, life's glory's reign,
dust rust as fractious fractal sand,
at dusk Time's Wheel still turns, refrain
falls dumb, numbs mice and mens' vain plan
to cheat Fate which, impassive, gain
and loss ignores for also-ran.

Those who chased harvest grains of gold,
and those who flung them on wold, waste
alike forgotten lie, tale told,
rot, bolt shot, sot and sage misplaced.
Six feet by four where two feet raced
through space unlimited: all cold.

Time's spinning wheel steals, never still,
while mortal pawns from stem to stern
turn through warp, weft, whose pattern will
gainsay those praying for return,
for second innings while they spurn
hands begging alms, yet rob the till.

Some find fame’s flame, some, lame, are lost
some simply tack or take up slack,
few certain feel, far more count cost
of one-way track, no looking back,
prepare for probate and attack
all who dare care for coming frost.

Unkind is almanack which notes
ephemera most prize awhile:
birth, spousal celebration, oats
sown wisely, rashly, reconcile
to soujourner such short shrift trial
as Chance doles out before Death votes.

What beauty spot, forget-me-not,
thrive to survive beyond the grave?
What tiny tot by love begot
recalls love’s thrall, may keepsake save
when Charon tall and short cross wave
has ferried sad or happy lot?

Care wears down, frown knows no soft down,
once zenith’s passed upon the way,
ahead, head proud, from loud crowd crown
in vain seeks, weakness follows play,
where are the snows of yesterday
when season terminates countdown?

Who flutters by in merry mood
soon food for worms squirms, early, late,
mean little to Fate’s scales. Reviewed,
days sentient seldom senses sate
while those incontinent berate
extensions often hard pursued.

Life’s causal chain again, again,
wheels out reel’s fitful roundabout,
redemption justified by pain
non sequitur seems, soul without
a leg to stand on’s found where doubt
is sold on one-way wagon train.

Wainwright’s weal wanes as dawn turns dusk,
from lease released, renewal’s tease,
recycling readies empty husk,
to devil sent priorities,
nor beads, sect screeds, nor title deeds
prolong life’s hymn for further busk.

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(26 February 2010)
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