Lawrence S. Pertillar

Gold Star - 52,470 Points (February/'47 / Connecticut, USA)

Driven By A 'Drive' Makes Life Worth Living - Poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar

Each day we live to witness,
Has its own identity.
And each day we see begin,
From Sunrise to Sunset's end...
Has reason to be,
Like none before it...
Gone and experienced.

To live life inspite of what others may say,
In whatever day that is done.
Everyone has a different appreciation for life.
Some choose to limit their existences,
By being busy beavers in other folks' business.
And doing that with a priority.
Since their own lives are empty with purpose.
And no one should live without having an interest.
A hobby or 'something' to call their own....
Makes the sharing of this,
An adventure more condoned

Others are observed enjoying each second,
As if it is their last.
I admire the ones who are obviously in pain.
Walking around with assisted 'walkers'.
Or getting from A to B with the support of a cane.
And driven by a 'drive' makes life worth living.

Each day has its own identity.
As sure as we decide to address and change agendas.
Exhaling what has been inhaled,
With a breath released to push out.
And there are no guarantees that are offered to us.
No matter if we scream and shout.
Or keep it 'twisted' like Chubby Checker.

'Chubby who? '

~Let's keep this moving forward! ~

Thank you!
Although we believe we can adopt certainties.
Like having a 'career' after spending thousands,
On getting a college degree.
Or receiving an award for some display of loyalty.
And many believe they can live each day,
Doing exactly what they please.
WE don't have those opportunities.
Not to do 'exactly' what we please!
I don't care where someone parks their yacht.
Or make claims how many millions it takes,
To keep them from feeling worthless.

But each day that comes to us,
If we are blessed to live it.
Needs from us a committment shown...
We are grateful to participate,
By creating 'something' to give and celebrate.
Not hoard or brag about how we stay entrapped...
By 'things' that can't touch us back.
Like grass and the leaves on trees.
Or watching a river flow...
From atop a hill and 'still' we lookup,
With our eyes opened wide under falling snow.

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Poem Submitted: Friday, January 29, 2010

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